I'll Be the Sailor, You Be the Lighthouse
by ArwenLalaith
Summary: Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim... Emily Prentiss is waiting for someone to throw her a life raft.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I'm being bad and posting this before it's finished, so updates may be sporadic. This fic will have both Demily and Dentiss in it, but I need your input to decide on the ending, so be sure to review and let me know which pairing you like better!**

 **Also, I'm looking for someone to beta a new Demily fic I've written. Shoot me a PM if you're interested in giving it a read-through. I'll write you a short fic in return for the favour.**

* * *

Ian emerged from the en-suite bathroom ready for his flight to Boston. He crossed to the farther side of the bed where his wife still lay, clutching the covers to her chest like they were protecting her, despite the fact that it was past noon.

"Emily, Love, are you going to get out of bed today? I have to go to Boston for work – you're welcome to come with me, if you feel so inclined."

She gave an indistinct noise in response and burrowed further under the quilt.

"Emily, it's been a month already…you've barely gotten out of bed for two weeks. I know it's been a very difficult time dealing with such a traumatic loss, but you can't live like this forever. You can't stop living just because Declan is gone."

"Just go…" she whispered.

"Emily, this isn't healthy and he wouldn't want you to live like this."

She sat up in bed suddenly, her eyes fiercely red from crying. "Just go!" she shouted, her voice choked with tears, "Please, _just go_!"

"Emily…" he started again.

She reached for the nearest thing on the nightstand and her fingers closed on her glass of water, which she threw in his direction. He managed to dodge it and it shattered against the wall by his head.

He sighed heavily and decided to table the issue until he got home. "I love you," he murmured quietly as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Ian Doyle had already reached the conclusion that his contact wasn't going to be making an appearance.

He'd flown across the ocean to meet the bastard and left his wife at a time when she desperately needed him – purely because this guy was supposed to have the best merchandise – and he hadn't even had the decency to show up. At best, next time they crossed paths, he would have a few choice words for the asshole.

He finished his drink and stood up from his booth in a quiet back corner, dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table. He'd take an early night and make sure his wife was okay on her own, but he still had a day left in Boston before he could return.

As he crossed to the door, another patron who'd had a few drinks too many bumped into him and spilled his cheap beer on Ian's jacket. He turned around to tell the guy off, but was unable to get a word out before the man recognized him. "Hey, I know you," he said with a wink, "You're the guy with the _very_ bangable wife. Tell her to give me a call when you're done with her…" He had approximately ten seconds to regret his words before Ian slugged him across the face.

The bartender had known Ian long enough to know better than to question him and was quick to eject the now bloodied man from the establishment.

When Ian exited shortly afterwards, the drunk was waiting for him, with a grudge to settle.

Before he even saw the blade of the knife, though, the attacker had already been disarmed and tackled to the ground by a dark man in a leather jacket who'd appeared out of the shadows, seemingly from thin air.

Recovering from his shock, he offered the stranger a hand to shake. "Seems I owe you one."

"No big deal," the dark man shrugged, accepting the handshake.

"So, you often hang around bars waiting to play the hero?"

"I go where I'm wanted."

Ian chuckled. "Only two types of people that hang around bars: drunks and criminals…and both are rather seedy. Which one are you?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"It's important to know who I'm doing business with," Ian replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lighting one.

"Since when am I doing business with you?"

"I haven't properly introduced myself," he offered with a smirk, "Ian Doyle. One thing you should know about me – people tend to do as I tell them."

"Derek Morgan. And you should know that I like to be left alone."

"Why don't I buy you a drink? I have a proposition that would be in your best interest to hear out."

Once they were back inside the Black Shamrock, both with a fresh drink in hand, Derek asked a little rudely, "What do you want from me?"

"I take it that if you've got the time to patrol outside local watering holes, you're lacking employment?" It was phrased like a question, but he already knew the answer.

"It's hard to find jobs in this economy," Derek sighed bitterly.

Ian's voice was low as he offered, "Not if you're willing to overlook certain things… How are you with a gun?"

"Well, I did grow up in the ghettos of Chicago, defending my white mama…" Ian grinned. "So, what is it that I'll be doing?"

"Recent events have found me in need of better security."

Derek slammed his glass onto the bar, getting annoyed and impatient. "Get to the point. I might be unemployed, but my time is still precious."

"Obviously, you've not heard of me or you wouldn't speak to me like that. I never waste time, especially not my own. And if you wish to work for me, you'd best learn to bite your tongue."

"Then hire someone else," he said, his words slow and measured.

"Don't speak so soon," Ian grinned smugly, "I run a very profitable enterprise and I don't see many other takers for a hired goon. But I can't hire just anyone…"

"What is it you want to know?"

Ian shook his head. "People lie. I'll be having an associate of mine find out everything I need to know. I can't risk having my organization compromised."

"Then I suppose we're done here."

"Here, perhaps. But I'll be returning to Ireland the day after tomorrow. And if my searches don't turn up anything unsavoury, you'll be coming with me."

"To Ireland?"

"It's a good position; you'll live on my estate in the most beautiful country in the world, travel with my wife and I to my other properties on occasion, and travel with me on business should the situation call for it. And as long as you mind your own business and keep your hands off my wife, you'll be paid more than fairly for your work."

"Cheers," Derek said, raising his glass and downing the rest of the amber liquid before slinking into the shadows of the bar and disappearing from sight.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian pulled the heavy bedroom curtains back from the wide bay window set into the far wall, sending sunlight streaming down onto Emily's face. "It's a beautiful day outside, Love..." he gently cajoled. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on her blanket clad shoulder. "Why don't we go for a walk?" She hadn't been outside in weeks – had barely left the bedroom except for meals and that was when she ate at all. He wasn't sure the last time she'd changed out of her pyjamas.

She groaned and rolled over so the sun was out of her face, but said nothing.

"We could go visit Declan's grave," he suggested quietly. He ran his hand down her arm to squeeze her hand, finding it ice cold.

"No," she said firmly, resolutely, from deep within her nest of blankets. But she squeezed his hand back. It was the most physical contact they'd had in weeks.

He smiled faintly when she returned the pressure, but it was pained. "You haven't been since the funeral. The crocuses have just started to bloom – you know how he used to love them. You haven't even seen the headstone...he'd want you to come visit," he urged. His thumb fiddled with her wedding band, twisting it about her finger.

"No, Ian!" she shouted, sitting up suddenly and knocking his hand aside. Her mood changes were unpredictably sudden and often violent of late.

"Em, Love..." he soothed, hands held up in supplication, ready to dodge anything she might send flying in his direction.

"I can't do it," she admitted, voice breaking, "I just can't." She let out a heavy breath that trembled on the exhale. Her eyes begged him to understand, to forgive her for her failures. As if he could ever deny her anything.

He said nothing, stroking a hand tenderly over her unbrushed hair and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. When he pulled back, a tear was escaping from her closed eyes. He brushed it away with his thumb without comment.

With a sigh, he shut the door behind him, leaving her to return to her private grieving. He didn't know how much more he could take. He knew she was struggling, was grieving, but this wasn't the woman he'd married. He'd do anything to have her back. (Actually, if he was wishing for things, he'd wish for Declan back – that would make everything better.)

"I apologize for my wife," he said to Derek who was standing sentry outside the bedroom. "She isn't normally this antisocial, but she's struggling to deal with our son's passing. I'm afraid the wound is still too fresh for her."

"I don't imagine there's enough time in the world to get over a child's death," Derek said, perhaps too brazenly, almost as if he were accusing Ian of not grieving hard enough, long enough.

Ian studied him for a long moment, brow furrowed intensely, and Derek briefly regretted his words. "Aye," he agreed eventually, "I imagine you're right."

"How did he die, if you don't mind my asking?" Ian hadn't shared many details about his family life and Derek was curious about what kind of life an arms dealer lead behind closed doors.

"There was a break in," Ian explained, barely keeping the anger out of his voice, even after all the time that had passed. "Emily and I weren't home, Declan was asleep in his bed. The intruder smothered him in his sleep. Security failed to respond to the alarm in time." There was a vacant regretful note to his voice. "A man like me has a lot of enemies," he added cryptically.

"I'm sorry," Derek said gently, not meeting the other man's eyes, knowing he wouldn't want to be seen in a moment of weakness, understanding that probably better than anyone. He briefly wondered what had happened to the murderer, but thought it wisest not to ask.

"She blames herself," he continued, as if Derek weren't there, "She thinks if she'd been there, she could've saved him somehow."

Derek didn't say that that feeling never went away, never got better. He didn't think that would help. He simply nodded and said nothing.

Ian clapped him on the shoulder and walked away down the hall without further conversation or instruction.

Derek couldn't have said why he did it, but without pausing to consider whether it was a good idea, he knocked on the bedroom door and poked his head in.

"I said no, Ian," came Emily's weary voice, muffled by the surrounding bedding. She sounded drained and empty, like she had absolutely nothing left to give to life.

"It's not..." He shook his head, feeling like he was intruding on something he wasn't supposed to have seen. "Sorry for intruding," he apologized and went to retreat.

"Wait," she said, sitting up slowly to fix him with a curious look. "Why are you here?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," he said with a shrug, not entirely sure of the reason himself.

"I'm not," she said softly, "I'll never be okay again."

"You will," he promised, "It's going to take a lot of time and the hurt will never fully go away, but I promise, you _will_ be okay again. One day you'll realize you're okay again and it doesn't mean you've forgotten, just that you're not reading from that book of pain everyday."

"How do you know?" she asked, meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with desperation and the faintest hint of hope. They take his breath away for the briefest of moments.

He just shook his head a little. "Just give it time," he said vaguely.

She stared blankly ahead for a long time, so long he thought maybe she'd forgotten he was there.

"I'll just..." He gestured awkwardly towards the door.

"Thank you, Derek," she said quietly once his back was turned.

He paused, turned back to look at her, but she was already burrowing back into the blankets.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is everything okay?" Derek asked gently, knocking lightly on the door frame to announce his presence. The room was dark and he had to squint to make out Emily's form, back to the wall, knees pulled into her chest, making herself as small as possible.

He'd been awoken in the middle of the night by a heart-rending wail echoing through the walls of the upper floor and thought it best to investigate. He'd followed the sound to find Emily sobbing as if her heart were breaking and he almost turned away, feeling like he were witnessing something he wasn't meant to see, but he couldn't just leave her there without knowing if she was alright.

"Fine," Emily replied, voice warbling. She sniffled and wiped a tear off her cheek. "Just go back to sleep." She looked dishevelled, like her hair hadn't been brushed in days and her pyjamas clearly needed to be washed. Her appearance was obviously not high on her list of priorities and, in spite of that, he could clearly tell that she was beautiful. But he wasn't supposed to think of her like that...

Seeing through her facade as easily as glass, he crossed the room to sit on the floor beside her. He didn't say anything and neither did she. Silence reigned for a long time. He took in the room around him, obviously a child's room, and it didn't take much to figure out why she was crying.

"I left it the way he left it – that last day when I put him to bed," she whispered eventually. All signs of any intruder, any struggle, had been erased, presumably by Emily, every last detail painstakingly restored to its child-like chaos. "He didn't want to go to sleep, he was too busy playing," she relived, "He kept begging for five more minutes, but we were late for dinner. I should've indulged him. I should've played with him just a little longer. If I'd known..."

"He liked dinosaurs?" Derek asked when she trailed off, stopping her from drowning in the welling grief. He nodded towards the plastic figurines scattered across the floor, clearly the favourite. They were surrounded by the shambles of a wooden block castle, clearly built by adult hands and demolished by a child's play.

"They're dragons," she corrected with a soft smile. "He likes playing knight. _Liked_..." she corrected herself, voice breaking.

"Let me guess," Derek said, "He was the hero and you were the princess and he had to save you?"

She shook her head, fond memories shining in her eyes. "The knights and the dragons were friends. That week they were running a theatre company. I think they were putting on a performance of The Lion King."

Derek laughed, he couldn't help the jovial sound from bubbling up, in spite of the sombre atmosphere. "That's a new one..."

Emily nodded, a faint smile playing about her lips at the memory. "He was never one to do the expected. He had a mind of his own. I don't think he ever once played them at combat. Much to Ian's chagrin."

She'd always been incredibly proud of his uniquely unflinching gentle soul and wanted to preserve it at all costs. Ian had spoken often that he needed to be toughened up, while Emily maintained that his youthful innocence needed to be preserved as long as possible and it was one of the few issues Emily was willing to match him scream for scream on. In the end, she always won.

"He was gentle and kind," she continued when he said nothing. "Ian would have liked him to be harder, rougher, more like him...he always said he raised warriors. But Declan was so tenderhearted. And I loved him all the more for it.

"I wonder sometimes who he would've grown up to be," she mused wistfully. "Whether he would've become who Ian wanted him to be, whether he would've stayed his own person. Now, I'll never know... I would've loved him regardless. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy."

Derek wanted to say something, anything, to ease her broken heart, but he doubted there were any words adequate, so he said nothing. But he reached out a hand to where hers was resting limply and rested it on top, squeezing lightly.

She didn't respond for a long time, staring down at their joined hands as if the concept was foreign to her and he was starting to think he'd crossed a line. He was about to withdraw the contact and apologize when he felt the barest of pressure in return. Faint enough that he could've imagined it, he squeezed back anyway, as if she might float away if he didn't anchor her down.

"I thought you were a ghost," he said suddenly, breaking her solemn silence. A timid attempt at breaking the tension of grief.

"What?" she said, choking on a sob that was almost a laugh.

"When I heard you crying...I thought the house was haunted," he explained.

She gave a derisive snort. "Ian is far too superstitious to live in a haunted house," she informed him.

That surprised Derek and for a moment, he thought she might be kidding.

"And don't even get him started on the Fae," she added, rolling her eyes.

"Like fairies?" he asked, skeptical.

Emily nodded solemnly. "He thinks he's angered the Gentry and that's why Declan died," she said in the barest of whispers.

Derek wanted to tell her that that was crazy, that her son's death was nothing more than a tragic crime, but he wasn't sure questioning his employer's beliefs was the best idea, so he said nothing. "You should get some rest," he gently encouraged instead.

She shook her head. "I don't want to keep Ian awake. I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about him...I see him every time I close my eyes. When does that go away?"

He shook his head. He wished he had an answer for her. He just squeezed her hand tighter.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Check out the poll on my profile and tell me what I should be writing next.**

* * *

"You're out of bed!" Ian exclaimed.

"You sound surprised," Emily replied as she trudged into the kitchen, stifling a yawn.

Ian didn't bother pointing out that she hadn't gotten out of bed in time for breakfast in several weeks. He didn't think it would help anything; he was just glad to see her out of bed. She looked better than she had in weeks; she'd gone to the effort of showering and washing her hair and that alone had made an enormous difference. She looked healthier – clearer, brighter.

He crossed the kitchen and pulled her in for a kiss.

"What was that for?" she asked with a laugh once he'd pulled away.

The sound of her genuine laughter for the first time in so long made his heart feel lighter. "Can't a man just be happy to see his wife?" he asked, then kissed her a second time. He'd missed this, the taste of her lips, the feel of her shy smile. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"I think I can manage," she said, smiling at his concern. She stroked a hand down his stubbly cheek, remembering how it felt to be close to him, to be in love.

"Sit." He shook his head, leaving no room for argument. "I'm making you breakfast." He also didn't say he was glad to see her appetite had come back; for awhile, he'd been afraid she might wither away and die. "How do you feel this morning?" he asked quietly, reverently, after a long period of silence but for the sound of him preparing her food.

"I really hate that question," she replied. But he was looking at her so lovingly, with so much understanding, and all she could do was sigh. She shrugged and it seemed to take a great effort. "I feel... I don't know...heavy. Like there's a weight on my shoulders and I'm just not strong enough." She said it in a whisper, hating the words as they fell from her lips.

He set down a plate of toast in front of her – it was the only thing she could keep down lately. "You're the strongest person I know," he murmured, kissing the back of her hand.

She knew that he meant it, even when she wished he didn't have so much faith in her because she could only ever let him down. She smiled softly at him. "How do you do it?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to study him.

"Do what?" he asked, intertwining their fingers and holding tightly to her hand as if afraid she might slip away.

"How do you deal with your grief so easily?"

"It hasn't been easy, Em." His voice was small and sad and broken, "None of it has been easy. But you've needed me, so I've held it together for you."

Emily's heart clenched a little. "I'm so sorry, Ian, I didn't mean to take away from your grief."

"No, Em, no no no," he soothed. He took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears that had welled up. "I'd do anything for you, you know that."

She gave a watery smile. "I love you." Then, for good measure, she kissed him tenderly.

At that moment, Derek emerged into the kitchen. He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, feeling like he were witnessing something he shouldn't have intruded upon.

Ian pulled away from the kiss with reluctance. "Liam and I are leaving to meet with a supplier," he told her. "I'm leaving Derek her to keep an eye on things here."

"I don't need a babysitter," she insisted, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"But I need the peace of mind of knowing you're safe. You're all I have left in the world..."

...

"You really don't have to come with me," Emily insisted, exiting the car. She had an appointment in the city and he had insisted on accompanying her.

Derek was quick to follow after her. "I'm afraid Ian's orders were very clear, ma'am."

She almost shuddered at the honorific. "What about my orders? And don't call me ma'am."

"No offence, but you're much less terrifying than Ian."

"Hey!" Emily scowled. "I'm terrifying too – you should see me with a revolver."

Derek just laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "While I'm sure you're an excellent shot, I'm not about to leave you to your own devices and risk receiving Ian's wrath.

Emily rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette as she walked. She took a long drag, held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

"Should you be doing that?" he asked, "Those things will kill you, you know."

"You sound like Ian," she scoffed, but continued smoking nonetheless.

"Good," he said firmly. "He already lost one important person in his life, I doubt he'd keen on losing another."

She shook her head slowly, but sadly, saying nothing and he briefly regretted bringing up the subject of her dead son.

"Listen," he said awkwardly after a moment, "If you ever need someone to talk to – like the other night – I'm always..."

She held up a hand to stop him. "I appreciate what you did for me the other night, but...I don't think it should happen again."

"What? Why?"

"Ian is very protective – if he even suspects impropriety, it could be very dangerous for you. He's killed men for much less."

"It was just a conversation, I was trying to make you feel better," he said as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Ian may not see it that way," she replied, "It's best that we keep things professional from this point forwards." She studied the lit end of the cigarette as if it were the most interesting thing in the world to avoid looking at him.

"Oh, okay..." He tried not to let the rejection sink into his voice.

"It's nothing personal, I like you, really, I just think it's in everyone's best interests," she explained.

He nodded slowly, but couldn't help the wounded expression that crossed his face.

Emily went back to her cigarette so she didn't have to see.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ian, what the fuck!?" Emily shouted, bursting into the room.

"Emily, calm down," he said without turning around as if he'd been waiting for this moment.

"Like hell I'll calm down! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm packing his things away. There's no need to keep his room as some sort of shrine, collecting dust."

She crossed the room in three strides and pushed him away from the box he was currently packing. She didn't stop to think whether it was a good idea, whether it would anger Ian, only that she _couldn't_ let him pack all she had left of her son into a box like he didn't matter.

He held up his hands in supplication. "Emily, calm down," he repeated. "I know you're upset, but it's time we started moving on with our lives. We can't leave his room set up forever."

"It's only been two months," she plead, emotions fluctuating wildly between anger and sadness, "I need more time!"

"How long?" he argued, "How much time, Emily? A year? Two? How much time do you need?"

"I don't know!" she said, on the verge of tears, "Just _more_!"

"I can't keep living like this, Emily – I need closure, finality. I need an ending. And I'm going to get it."

"What does that mean?" she asked, anger rising again.

"It means I'm doing this." He went back to packing the box, carefully folding Declan's favourite pair of Spiderman pyjamas and placing them inside without a tear, without hesitation, without reverence.

She pulled the pyjamas right back out of the box, holding the soft fleece up against her cheek for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in the little boy's scent of peanut butter and fresh air. "Ian, stop!" she begged, "Please, I'm not ready!"

"We can't put our lives on hold, Emily. We can't stop living just because he has." He was trying to be calm, be reasonable, but his temper was quickly rising. "You're being unreasonable."

" _Unreasonable_!?" she nearly shrieked. "What part of any of this has been reasonable? The fact that our son – our _five_ year old – was murdered? The fact that it's your fault?"

"There it is..." he said, throwing his hands up. "There's the thing you've been wanting to say all this time. It's _my_ fault..."

"It is! What kind of normal person has enemies who murder children? What did you do to him? What could you have possibly done to anger someone that much!?" She'd never dared to ask, didn't want to know, but she couldn't help throwing it in his face in the heat of the moment.

"It doesn't matter now. He's been dealt with." He waved away her concern. He continued folding clothes and putting them in the box like she hadn't just accused him of being responsible for their son's murder.

"Stop it, Ian! Just stop it! For five fucking minutes can you stop being _you_ and just be a good husband?"

"So, I'm a bad husband now?" he challenged, a bubble of anger bursting in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides; he'd never hit her before, never even dreamed of hurting her, but he wanted to hit _something._

"Well, you're not a good one!" she retorted, just as angry, just as frustrated.

"Maybe you should just leave, then! If I'm such a horrible person, you should go and I won't be your problem anymore!"

"Maybe I will!" she shouted, even though she didn't mean it.

"Good." He whirled around and put his fist through the wall. "Leave, Emily! Run away! It's what you're good at!"

"I hate you," she seethed.

"Good. That should make it easy for you."

She gave him one last withering glare before turning on her heel and marching out of the room.

* * *

Derek knocked softly on the bedroom door. "Emily?"

"What?" she snapped when he poked his head in. She was moving about the room in a frenzy, stuffing clothing into a duffel bag.

"I was just checking..." he started to say, then stopped, catching sight of the bag slung across her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I'm leaving. Ian doesn't want me here, so I'm giving him exactly what he wished for."

He couldn't have said why that made his heart clench, all he knew was that he couldn't let that happen. "Emily..." he started.

"Let me guess, you're going to take his side: tell me I'm being stupid and overemotional." She gestured at him with her toothbrush. "Well, you can save the lecture. I'm not going to stay where I'm not wanted."

"No, actually, I was going to say that you're right. He's trying to make you move on before you're ready and that's going to do more damage than good. You need to take the time to feel what you feel, that's the only way to get over it."

She seemed dumb-founded that he'd actually agreed with her.

"But I also think you're making a mistake," he continued.

She looked at him like he'd slapped her. "Excuse me?"

"You can't run away. The only way out is through."

"I'm not running away," she disagreed. "I'm leaving because of Ian, not my emotions, not Declan."

"You obviously love Ian or you wouldn't have married him. You'll regret letting this tear you apart. It isn't going to be easy to get through – alone or together – but trust me, it's so much better to work through it together."

"He told me to leave..." she pointed out.

"He didn't mean that. It was the grief talking. He needs you as much as you need him – maybe even more."

Some of the ire seemed to have bled out of her and now, she just looked tired, depleted. She let her bag fall to the floor, body listless.

"I don't know how to do this," she admitted. "We're broken...so broken. _I'm_ broken. And I don't know how to fix it. Any of it."

"You're never going to fit the pieces back together exactly the way they used to fit. You're going to have to tape and glue and staple everything together and it will only slightly resemble what it used to be, but with time it will be stronger, better, than it used to be."

"How do you know?" she asked, sounding oh so desperate. "How can you make me these promises?"

He shook his head slowly. "You're not the only one who hurts," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: You might want to skip this chapter if you're only in this for the Demily. You won't miss anything important, plot wise.**

* * *

Emily met Ian Doyle the summer after she'd graduated from college, while bar-tending at the Black Shamrock.

It was clear from the first time he set eyes on her that he wanted her. But she'd heard stories about the infamous Ian Doyle and had effectively been frightened away from him. Not that that had ever stopped him from getting his way – or her from making bad decisions.

Whenever he was in Boston on business, he'd slip her his number with a devilish grin. And she'd wink and smile back, stuffing the napkin with his number into her bra, trying to ignore the way his smile made her stomach do flip flops. But she never called him and he never asked why she didn't, but he persisted anyway, clearly confident in his abilities to win her over.

Then, one night – she couldn't have said how or why – she found herself giving in to his charms.

He was hanging around as she closed up, intentionally nursing his whisky for an excuse to stay past last call. She had no idea why she hadn't kicked him out with the rest of the patrons, but she'd let him stay as she cleaned up for the night.

"I've got to know," he said, "How did a good girl like you end up working in a dive like this?"

She didn't miss the way he stared down her dress as she wiped down the bar and only then did she think to regret the fact that she'd gone braless. But only a little. More than anything, his hungry gaze was building heat in the pit of her stomach.

She gave a wicked grin. "I'm not a good girl..." she husked, voice laden with implication. She didn't know why she was flirting with him, why she was teasing him, all she knew was the way his smile turned absolutely predatory at her words sent heat rushing straight to her core.

"Talking like that will get you in trouble," he warned her.

"I like trouble," she replied smartly. She circled around to the front of the bar as if to wipe it down, pretending she didn't notice him checking out her ass.

He chuckled. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

She just smiled mysteriously. "You have no idea."

Before she knew what was happening, he surged forwards to kiss her. She didn't know why, but she let him. In fact, she balled a fist in his shirt, pulling him as close as possible so she was better able to take control.

The whisky was strong on his breath and his tongue, almost enough to give her a contact high. The stubble on his cheeks burned against the tender skin of her face. She found she liked the roughness, the danger of him.

She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, struggling to catch her breath again. Her mind was still spinning, unable to react when he lifted her to sit on the bar.

He laughed when he pulled her skirt up and found she wasn't wearing any panties either. Emily felt her cheeks pink at the reaction. "I got dressed in a hurry..." she offered by way of explanation.

He chuckled and she felt the puff of air against her bare thighs. "I'm a big fan," he husked, breathing in the scent of her arousal.

She yelped in surprise, back arching as his tongue hit her cunt. He was deft and skillful with his tongue and she couldn't help but cry out, "God, _yes_! Take me, Ian, please!"

The vibrations of his laughter could be felt as his teeth scraped against her clit.

She trailed a hand up her torso and pinched a nipple through the fabric of her dress. She knew he was watching from between her legs. His laughter turned into an appreciative hum.

"You want your cock inside me, don't you?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness. This wasn't like her to fuck some guy she barely knew in a seedy bar – it was wrong...God, it was _so_ wrong, but it turned her on like crazy. "You want to fuck me." She knew he did by the way he was palming himself through his jeans.

It shouldn't have surprised her how easily he was bringing her to the brink of orgasm – she'd heard stories of him being a prolific lover, leaving the bar with woman after woman on his arm – but it surprised her nonetheless. Maybe because she'd never had anything other than clumsy teenaged boys between her legs that left her more frustrated than satisfied.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. "Fuck me, Ian!" she demanded. His responding groan only served to turn her on further. "Ram that hard dick inside me so fucking hard I'll feel it tomorrow." She never talked like this – filthy words, bossy tone, unapologetically demanding exactly what she wanted – but found it so fucking hot.

As he stood, he popped one breast out of her dress and leaned down to nip it sharply. He suckled at it, palming the other breast through her dress entirely too roughly and she loved it. She tilted her head back, one hand going to the back of his head, her nails digging into his scalp as she clutched at him.

" _Fuck_ me!" she practically begged.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Emily," he growled, low in his throat. "I want your hot tight pussy around my cock. I want to use your little good girl cunt like you're a fucking whore."

"God, yes!" she cried out. "My cunt's throbbing...you feel that?" She knew he felt it, his hand still cupping her pussy, collecting her juices and smearing them along her slit and over her thighs that still burned from the scraping of his stubble.

He took his cock in his hand and lined himself up, pushing into her hard enough to make her cry out. He was rough enough that it sent not a small amount of pain rushing through her. He had a big cock – long and thick – and it stretched her to the point she thought she might tear, but _God_ it felt good.

She didn't know how much more stimulation she could stand when his calloused fingers slipped between her thighs to find her clit and she cried out sharply, her entire body spasming with pleasure. She raked her nails down his back, surely scratching up the leather of his jacket, but she was entirely too preoccupied to care.

"God, Ian," she panted, "I fucking love your gorgeous cock. You're so fucking hard. Fuck, my cunt loves your cock."

He couldn't help but groan, her crass words making his cock twitch inside her. He lifted one of her legs to get a better angle as he rammed into her again and again, filling the darkened bar with the sound of their flesh slamming together.

She was coming then, crying out, "Fuck Ian...fuck, fuck...God, yes!" Her entire body trembled with her release, cunt spasming around his cock.

He held out as long as he could in spite of her clenching around him, in spite of the sight of her clutching the bar for dear life as she came down from her high, still cursing under her breath. He clutched her ass, holding her firmly in place as he slammed into her until his release hit, spilling messily into her.

A week later, she'd quit her job and was on her way to Ireland with him.

She thought about that sometimes. She didn't regret it, had never regretted it. But she thought about it.

She'd given up everything to be with him – she'd moved across the ocean and left everything behind. He'd been all she had. He was _still_ all she had. And, at times like this, burdened by her grief and the growing heaviness between them, she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake...


	7. Chapter 7

"Emily?" Ian said from the doorway to their room, voice barely there, timid almost. It was the middle of the night and he wasn't sure if she'd still be awake, but he'd been unable to sleep without her next to him, no matter how comfortable the bed in the guest room was.

"Go away, Ian," she replied just as softly, just as wide awake without him. "I'm still _so_ angry with you."

"I'm sorry," he said, daring to come a few steps closer. He didn't miss the way she'd been wrapped around his pillow like it was the only thing keeping her afloat in a raging sea. "About earlier. I said things I shouldn't have said. I was angry, but that's no excuse."

"Which part shouldn't you have said?" she asked, sitting up so she could properly affix him with her coldest glare, "The part where you called me crazy? The part where you told me to leave?"

"I didn't call you..." he started, then cut himself off. "It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said any of it."

"No, you shouldn't," she agreed.

"It was cruel of me to pack up his things without giving you a say in the matter. I should have waited until you were ready." He wasn't normally one to apologize, but Emily was the only thing he had left in the world and he was willing to do whatever it took to keep her.

"Yeah, you should've," she agreed again.

"I guess, I haven't handled his death as well as I'd thought. Perhaps, packing away all evidence that he'd been here was my way of not dealing with my emotions."

"Why are you so afraid to _feel_ things?" she asked. "Our son is gone and he's never coming back, doesn't that _kill_ you inside? It kills me..."

"It does. I just...I don't know how to face that without falling apart," he admitted. "I guess, I've never learned how to deal with loss. It's always just been a part of my life, as much as breathing."

She cocked her head to the side as she stared sadly at him and, after a long moment, she shifted over to make room for him in bed next to her. "I don't know how to live without him," she whispered.

"Neither do I, Love," he echoed, climbing in bed beside her and wrapping his arms around her. "Neither do I."

She leaned her head on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his neck. "I know I can't do it without you," she said so softly he was barely sure he'd heard it.

"You don't have to," he promised. "You never have to be alone."

They were silent for a long time, wrapped around each other, her crying soundless tears into his chest when she whispered, "We need to see someone..."

"Hmm?"

"We need to see someone," she repeated, then elaborated, "A grief counsellor. We can't do this on our own."

And though opening up to a stranger about the grief that seemed to be ripping his insides to shreds was the last thing he wanted to do, he would do anything to keep Emily, so he eventually nodded. "If that's what you want."

"I want us to be whole again..."

* * *

The counsellor didn't ask how they were feeling and for that, Emily was extremely grateful.

She did, however, ask how they were doing as a couple... She was much less grateful about that. The answer was 'not good'.

"He never says his name," Emily said quietly before she knew she was going to say anything.

She knew the facts, knew that a child's death could tear even the strongest couple apart. The thought alone made her feel like she was drowning, like her lungs were filling with something heavy and her heart might burst from the pressure building around her. She wondered sometimes if Ian could see that she was slowly suffocating, if he felt it too.

"And this upsets you?" the counsellor prompted.

"It's like he's trying to erase Declan. Like he's trying to pretend he never existed."

"Emily, you know that's not..." he started. The counsellor stopped him, then gestured for Emily to continue.

"I want to talk about Declan," she said, "I want to _remember_ him – we have five years of memories, but it's like all we ever talk about is that last night. Why it happened, whose fault it was..."

"Emily, Declan's death was no one's fault. Blaming yourself is natural after something like this, but it isn't healthy," the counsellor said.

Her tongue flicked out to lick her top lip, eyes focused on the ceiling to keep the building tears from falling. "I feel stuck, like every day I wake up, it's like living that first day without him over and over and over again. But it's like Ian's already moved on with his life, like he's forgotten. And I hate him for it..." Her eyes were wide in surprise, not expecting the sudden vitriol. "I _hate_ him," she repeated, with renewed conviction, "I hate that it's all been _so fucking easy_ for him to get up and go on with his life like our son isn't _dead_!"

"Of course, I haven't moved on," Ian countered, voice rising in anger. "I just don't want to live with ghosts anymore. Declan's gone and he isn't coming back. You have to accept that sooner or later, Emily. You can't mope about pathetically the rest of your life..."

"He's not a ghost, he's our _son_ ," she cried, "A son we wanted more than anything! And I _need_ to remember him. I refuse to apologize for caring that he's gone!"

"He _was_ our son," Ian pointed out softly. He stared down at his hands, unable to meet her gaze after he'd blurted out those words, knowing the expression on her face without seeing it – that one that looked like he'd just physically struck her.

Emily just stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly in dismay. Then, without a word, she stood suddenly and fled the room, tears in her eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

"Shit! Fuck! Shit!"

Derek followed the colorful stream of curses down the stairs and into the kitchen to find Emily standing at the stove over a flaming frying pan. "Jesus, Emily! Are you trying to burn the house down!?" he exclaimed, grabbing the pan from her and extinguishing the flames.

That's when he realized she was crying. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, sobbing as if her very heart were breaking. Several awkward moments passed between them while he wrung his hands, knowing he should go to her, comfort her, but afraid of his actions being perceived as untoward.

Finally, he could stand it no longer and he pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her, impropriety be damned. This only served to make her cry harder, her entire body wracked with sobs, her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

Then, she seemed to remember herself and pulled sharply out of his embrace, breath hitching as she wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands. He looked away as she collected herself, knowing without being told that she would hate for him to see her weak. He related to her entirely too much.

"What were you making?" he asked, staring down at the charred remains in the pan, when she seemed to have regained her composure, struggling for something to say that wouldn't make her tears start all over.

"Fried peanut butter and jam sandwiches," she said, voice very small. "They used to be Declan's favourite."

"They look a little Cajun..." he pointed out quietly, cursing himself while simultaneously hoping she wouldn't start crying all over again.

"Well, I never was the best cook," she said with a shrug, her cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. She turned her back to him, scraping at the frying pan as if it had personally done her wrong.

"Hey, hey," he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder to stop her, "Let me." He scraped the sandwiches into the garbage and proceeded to start over.

"You don't have to..." she started to protest, but there was little power behind it. She had so little fight left in her.

"I want to," he insisted. It wasn't about the sandwiches, he knew.

Silence passed between them for several long minutes. "So..." he said eventually, "Counselling didn't go so well?" It didn't take a genius to figure that one out, considering that they'd arrived home from the session in seething silence and Ian had immediately locked himself in his study, likely to drink, and hadn't emerged since. Emily had used that uninterrupted time to unpack all the boxes Ian had packed the day before.

"How did you know about that?" she asked, frowning. Her eyes were full of warning, daring him almost to say the wrong thing.

"It's my job to know." It wasn't a question, but he inflected that way, hoping she'd accept the answer.

"It's not your job to be nosey," she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. Just weariness.

Another silence. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

She didn't say anything for so long, he thought she was ignoring him. "I feel so alone," she whispered at length, looking anywhere but at him.

"You have Ian," he said quietly. There was a note of something in his voice that she was afraid to name.

She shook her head and it seemed like that action alone drained her of all she had left. "Not anymore. Not really. He's changed since..." She couldn't bring herself to say it. "I've changed."

Then, even quieter. "You have me..."

There was another protracted silence in which she seemed lost for a response, mouth hanging open slightly, shaking her head slowly.

Feeling awkward, he added, "If you want... I mean..."

"Why?" she interrupted his rambling and it was angry, almost, for reasons he couldn't discern.

He blinked dumbly at her a few times. "Why what?"

"What do you have to gain from this? Did Ian tell you to say that?" Her anger was rising against her will, but she couldn't keep her temper from flaring. It happened more and more often lately and she hated the sudden and unpredictable violence of it, but she just couldn't help it.

"What? No, no – this has nothing to do with gaining anything. I just...thought you could use a friend," he explained.

"A friend," she repeated softly as if testing out the word. "I haven't had a friend in a long time."

"Me either," he admitted, but his smile was hopeful.

Her echoing smile was only sad.

He set a sandwich in front of her – cut diagonally, the way Declan liked, even though she hadn't told him. "I used to make these for him when he had a nightmare," she said after a long moment of staring at the sandwich with tears in her eyes. "Ian didn't like him sleeping in our bed, said he was too old for it. But I didn't want him to be afraid. So, he'd wake me up and we'd have sandwiches and cuddle until he fell back asleep. I'll never have a chance to do that again – to soothe his tears, to cuddle him...it was all just suddenly gone."

Then, realizing she'd just poured her heart out to her bodyguard whom she barely knew, she took several too big bites of sandwich to silence herself.

"Chocolate milk and banana bread," he said to break the silence. She gave him a quizzical look, so he explained, "That's what my mom used to give us when we had nightmares. It's...it's what I would have done for my son..."

Emily's face froze. "You have a son?" Her tone was jealous, almost.

His eyes flicked away from hers, but for the briefest of moments, she saw the raw unadulterated hurt there. "Had..." he said softly.


	9. Chapter 9

"Oh..." Emily said slowly, softly. " _Oh_..." She clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes suddenly wide as she struggled for what to say, what to do next.

"Yeah," he said, just as slowly, just as softly. He stared down at his sandwich for a few moments, just as lost, then pushed it away from him, no longer hungry.

"What...what happened?" she dared to ask, voice barely there at all.

He didn't respond for so long, his eyes vacant and unseeing, she felt sick with awkwardness and anxiety. The last thing she wanted to do was pry, to make him relive something he wasn't ready to face, but she was so desperate to talk to someone who had gone through it and come out the other side. Most days she wasn't sure there was an other side at all...

"Please," she whispered, desperate. "I need...I need to know there's, I don't know, hope? Life afterwards? Please..."

He sighed like every fibre of his being was exhausted. "His name was Hank – for my father. We never planned on having kids, not with the life I lead, but when we found out, everything changed. I cleaned up my act, got a real job...I did everything to give my son a better life than I had.

"You have to understand...my mother tried her absolute hardest to give me a good life, to set me on a good path. She might have succeeded, if my father hadn't died. She did her best as a single mother raising three children, but we needed money and the local gang offered me cash to run errands for them. It started out small, like delivering drugs, but they slowly started asking for more and more until I was a full-fledged member.

"Then, almost a year to the day after he was born, they came looking for me. 'Blood in, blood out' – that was the law and I had broken it. They shot my girlfriend, my son, and very nearly killed me too. Some days, I wish they had."

She reached a hand towards him, then faltered because what comfort could she offer in the face of such immense suffering? She bit down on her lip hard, then, feeling braver, she closed the distance and wrapped her hand around his.

He stared at his hands until she started to worry she'd crossed a line, then looked up to meet her eyes. She attempted a smile, but all there was was sadness, was pain.

"Does it get better?" she asked. "Everyone always says it does, but..." She shook her head. If there was a 'better', she hadn't found it.

"No...and yes," he answered vaguely, his hand still tightly gripped in hers.

"Please, tell me it does. I need to know there's something better," she begged. If she couldn't see the light, she just needed to know it was there, waiting for her to find it.

"It will, but it's going to hurt for a really long time. Sometimes, it will feel like it's been forever and all around you is an ocean of pain. There will be times it hurts so badly you'll wish you would die so it can just _end_. But then you'll start to see good in the world again, feel happiness again and it will start to feel like it's okay, that it's okay to be okay."

"When?" she asked desperately. "Because right now, it's just... _not_."

"I wish I had a good answer for that," he said with a helpless shrug. "It just happens one day. You just have to keep living your life, knowing that it _will_ get better if you just give it enough time."

A pink sliver of tongue flicked out to moisten her lip, her eyes lifting towards the ceiling as tears collected. "It doesn't feel like it will ever get better. It just feels like all there is is pain as far as I can see," she said hoarsely.

"I know, Em, I know." He wordlessly folded her into his chest as she cried silently breathless tears.

In retrospect, she couldn't have said how or why it happened, only that one moment he was consoling her and the next, he was kissing her.

And she knew she should stop him, stop the kissing – she was a married woman, for God's sake – but something inside her stalled and all there was in the world was the two of them, intertwined, until they were almost one being.

She moaned softly against his lips, fisting her hands in his shirt to keep him flush against her as he backed her into the counter. His fingers combed into her hair, tangling themselves in the strands, and she couldn't have escaped even if she'd wanted to. She'd forgotten what it was like to feel passion, to feel _anything_...

It took her longer than she was proud of to remember herself, to remember her husband but a floor above, grieving for their son... She felt herself wilt in his embrace. She turned her head, nose brushing along his cheek, but she remained wrapped tightly into his chest until she could feel his racing heart keeping time with hers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wanting words when there were none. "I'm just...I'm sorry." She kept her eyes closed, afraid of looking into his eyes and seeing what was reflected there.

"Don't be. I'm the one who should be sorry. I knew you were married and I kissed you anyway. It was inappropriate of me and I hope you'll forgive me, but I'll understand if you no longer feel comfortable employing me," he apologized.

She attempted an awkward smile, but knew it looked as forced as it felt. "It was my fault as much as yours. As long as Ian _never_ finds out, I see no reason why this needs to be a big deal."

"Thank you," he said softly as they backed apart. But there was a note in his voice that made her stomach twist into knots, a note she pretended she didn't hear.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time it happened, it wasn't something that either of them planned.

Though she'd never admit it, Emily hadn't been able to stop thinking about the kiss she'd shared with Derek. It was everything a kiss with Ian was not – tender where he was rough and claiming, expressive where he was unfeeling. She loved Ian, with all her heart, but there was something in that kiss with Derek Morgan that made her _feel_ things.

She didn't know why she went down to his room that night that Ian was away, why she knocked on his door. All she knew was that _feeling_ deep inside when he opened the door and smiled that winning smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, mirth shining in his eyes. "Another spider for me to kill?"

She rolled her eyes. She'd asked him to kill _one_ spider (an _enormous_ spider) and he would never let her live it down. "No, not another spider," she scoffed. She paused, wavered. "I just came to say good night," she said, feeling suddenly shy.

He must have heard a note in her voice that gave him pause because his expression was suddenly serious. "Is everything alright?" he asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah. No, everything is fine. Really," she rambled. She had to look away from the intensity in his eyes to stop herself. She smiled softly, looking back up at him through her lashes.

He laughed a little. "So, what are you..."

She cut him off, surging forwards to press her lips to his, sealing them in a searing kiss. He didn't waste any time in kissing her back, but she could sense his hesitation sure as anything.

When she pulled away for air, she braced herself for his reaction, fearing his rejection. She looked anywhere but at him, feeling his scrutiny on her.

"What are you doing, Em?" he asked softly, reaching out to cup her cheek in his palm, forcing her to meet his eye.

"I don't know," she admitted, ashamed. "I just...I wanted this." She indicated between the two of them needlessly.

"What about Ian?" he asked, the voice of reason when she just wanted to be _unreasonable_ for once.

"I can't...think about him right now," she said, shaking her head. "Please... I need... I need to feel loved." She was begging now and she hated the pleading note in her voice, but she was desperate. "I just need someone to hold me."

Her eyes were so soft, so sad, that he felt something inside him giving way when he knew he shouldn't. "Em..."

"Please?" she said again, "Just for tonight. He never has to know."

He tilted his head slightly to examine her, feeling himself giving in, in spite of himself. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd reached out a pulled her into him, renewing their kiss with urgency. "Just for tonight," he whispered against her lips.

She murmured an indistinct agreement, her hands already slipping under his shirt to explore the planes of muscle underneath.

"Slow down, Princess," he chuckled. "We've got all night."

Seeming to ignore his admonition, she backed him into the room, kicking the door shut behind them. She yanked his shirt up and over his head before reaching for her own.

Her eagerness was infectious, spilling over into him. He batted her hands away from the hem of her shirt, feeling a little thrill of exposing something so utterly forbidden to him.

Once she was standing there in only her bra, she was suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny, the intensity of his gaze seeming to burn holes in her skin.

"Hey," he said gently, lifting her chin. "You're beautiful," he breathed.

She smiled shyly and, emboldened, she reached back to undo her bra, never taking her eyes from his. She let it fall to the floor, baring herself completely to him.

"Beautiful," he said again, pulling her back to him by her hips. He affixed his lips to her neck, teeth raking lightly over the soft skin there.

"Careful," she rasped, "If you leave a mark, he'll know..."

Once again, he doubted whether this was a good idea, Ian's warning that first night still fresh in his mind. But then, Emily's nimble fingers were on his belt buckle, far too close to a sensitive area and he swallowed thickly. "Em..." he warned.

But she was already on her knees, unzipping his jeans, and his protests died in his throat. Her hand was warm and soft on his cock and she pumped her hand a few times to get him hard before her lips wrapped around him. He groaned, head lolling back as she started bobbing her head, sucking him off with no small amount of talent.

"Em...Emily," he wasn't sure if he was trying to make her stop or continue, his hand tangling in her hair, seemingly with a mind of its own as he pushed her in closer. Then, shaking his head, he protested, "Not-not like this..."

She pulled back with a wet pop, wiping her saliva off her cheek with the back of her hand. "You want me to stop?" she taunted, tongue flicking out to lick her lips teasingly.

"No...I mean, yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes. I want to be inside you."

She gave a little whimper, tongue darting out again, this time nervously as she settled back on the bed. She leaned back on her elbows, watching as he stripped out of his clothes.

She could tell he was nervous in the way he looked at her as he crawled up her body, eyes darting about like he was suddenly afraid to look at her. "I don't...have anything," he said lamely, gesturing at his cock.

"It's okay," she reassured. "I'm on the pill."

"Won't he know, if I..." he asked awkwardly.

She shook her head, a little sadly. "We don't..." she said, just as awkwardly, a faint sheen of tears in her eyes.

The mood effectively dampened, he asked, "Should I...?"

"Please," she choked, "I need..." She slid a hand around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, trying to reignite the passion.

With a cautious hand, he reached between her legs and slipped two fingers into her. She gasped sharply at the intrusion, the sound going straight to his cock. "You like that?" he asked, pumping his hand inside her.

She keened softly, back arching into his hand as he finger fucked her like it was the last time he'd ever touch a woman.

"You ready for me?"

"Yes," she hissed, "Fuck me, Derek!"

He slid his hand from her cunt with a slippery sound of her juices. He took himself in his hand, guiding himself into her with a deep groan. "Fuckkk," he moaned, slowly starting to move his hips.

"Derek," she breathed, "Yes!"

"Oh, Em, you feel so good," he rasped. "Can I go harder?"

"Yes," she begged, "Please..."

"Emily," he chanted, "Em..." His hips sped up their tempo, plunging deeper into her until she was writhing underneath him, hands fisting in the sheets.

"I'm gonna come...are you almost there?"

"Almost," she said, frustrated and trying to get more, one hand grasping at his ass, nails digging into his flesh.

"Come on, Em," he coaxed, thumb going to her clit and rubbing furiously.

"Yes," she cried as she hit her climax, "Oh, God, yes!"

At the last minute, he pulled out, pumping his cock a few times before coming sloppily all over her stomach. He groaned at the sight of his cum drying against her pale stomach. "Beautiful..." he rasped, trailing his fingers through the mess.

Spent, he lay down beside her still panting form. She twisted her head to look at him and smiled coyly. "Thank you," she said softly, reaching over to take his hand. "I needed that." Then, with a kiss to the back of his hand, she sat up to collect her clothes.

He frowned at the sudden move to depart. "Did you want to stay the night?"

Her smile was tight, then. "Thank you, but..."

He nodded with understanding. "But that's not what this was..."

She tightened one hand around his, but said nothing. He didn't say anything either. They just sat there in silence, smiling sadly at each other.


	11. Chapter 11

Ian returned from his business trip two days later to find Emily splayed seductively across their bed in the red lingerie he'd given her as a gift on their last anniversary – the set that never failed to drive him crazy – the first time she'd worn it, he hadn't even bothered to take it off her before fucking her brains out.

"Em?" he said slowly, warily. "What are you doing?"

"I've missed you..." she purred, running a hand over her breast and down her stomach, towards her pussy.

"What's all this for?" he asked, gesturing at the candles she'd lit, obviously having gone to great lengths to set the mood for their reunion.

"Can't a wife just be glad to see her husband?"

"I appreciate the thought, Love, but I'm not really in the mood," he dismissed gently.

Her face fell briefly at the dismissal, but she wasn't about to be deterred. "Well, we can remedy that..." she teased, hand slipping beneath the waistband of her panties, fingers hitting her clit, making her hips buck.

"You don't have to..." he started to protest.

"I want to," she insisted, voice rising an octave, betraying her attempt at being sexy.

He didn't miss the quaver in her voice. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine. I'm fine," she insisted. She cleared her throat. "Come to bed. I want to make you feel good."

He approached the side of the bed trepidatiously. "That's really quite alright," he insisted. He wanted to hold her, lay with her, but she didn't seem content with platonic affection.

Ignoring his protests, she reached to undo his zipper and pull him free from the confines of his boxer briefs. She wrapped her hand around his length, stroking him.

"Em... Em-Emily," he groaned, struggling to keep control. "St-stop. Stop it!" He grabbed her wrist hard when she continued to ignore him.

"No, it's okay," she insisted. "Just let me..." She leaned in, intending to take him in her mouth.

"No, Emily! Just stop!" With a hand on her shoulder, he held her at arm's length.

"Fuck me," she begged, "Just fuck me, please!"

"What has gotten into you!?" he demanded.

Tears raced down her cheeks. "Why don't you want me?" she whispered. She turned away so he wouldn't see her tears. "It's because of Declan, isn't it? You blame me..."

"No, Emily," he said, sounding weary. "Let's just go to bed, we can discuss this in the morning."

"Do you still love me?" she asked, voice so small it was barely there.

"Emily!" he said, shocked.

"Do you?"

"Of course, I love you! I've always loved you and that's not about to change."

"Then why don't you want me?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently turned her to face him. "You're beautiful, sexy, desirable...but I'm just not ready. It feels...wrong, somehow, to enjoy life, pleasure, when Declan is gone."

She sniffled, unable to meet his eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. "Hold me?" she whispered.

"Of course, Love." He pulled her in for a chaste kiss. He climbed into bed behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade, feeling her back shuddering as she sobbed silently.

She could feel his breath against the back of her neck even out into slow warm puffs of air as he descended towards sleep. The warm familiarity of it ordinarily would have pulled her into sleep with him, but that night it failed. "Ian?" she whispered.

"Yes, Love?" he replied, voice gravelly with sleep.

"You know I love you, right?"

"Of course. Almost as much as I love you."

She lay awake for hours, even after he'd fallen asleep, trying to believe that.

* * *

Derek woke up to an insistent knocking on his bedroom door.

With a yawn and a groan, he answered the door, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Hopefully the compound _wasn't_ under attack, though, because he could really use a few more hours' sleep.

"Emily?" he said with a frown. "Why are you..."

She cut him off by attacking his lips with her own. One hand came around the back of his head, her short nails scraping at his scalp, the other fisting in the loose tank top he slept in. Her teeth sank down into his bottom lip, a little harder than was playful.

"Ow!" he yelped into the kiss, before finally managing to push her away from him. "What the hell, Emily!?" he demanded. "What are you doing?"

"Well, if my husband doesn't want me anymore, I figured someone should get good use out of these," she said, undoing the tie that held her robe together, exposing her lace clad breasts. She moved back in for another hungry kiss.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, entirely confused, as he dodged her kiss. He attempted to close her robe again, purposefully diverting his gaze.

"Ian won't touch me. But I know you want to...I can see it in your eyes. You want me."

He frowned. "Emily, have you been drinking?"

"It doesn't matter," she insisted, pressing her body up against his and reaching for his cock.

"Stop, Emily!" he demanded, grabbing her wrists and holding them away from him. "It _does_ matter. We agreed we wouldn't do this again and I'm not going to take advantage of you while you're drunk and upset."

"I'm not drunk!" she insisted.

"Well, you aren't in your right mind either. You'd regret this in the morning."

"You don't know that!"

"Sleep it off, Emily." He lifted her carefully into his arms, bridal style, and carried her into the guest bedroom.

"But..." she started to protest.

He didn't let her finish, gently lowering her into the bed and covering her with the quilt. "Sleep," he instructed.

"But..." she started again.

He kissed her forehead lightly. "Sleep, Princess."

"Will you stay with me?" she asked, voice small.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. "Just until you fall asleep," he agreed, crawling into bed behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

"Did Ian send you?" Emily asked as Derek soundlessly approached. Her eyes were closed as she tilted her face towards the sun like a blossoming flower, letting the warmth wash over her in a way she hadn't felt in months.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, impressed. "And no, he didn't. I was just worried about you." He didn't say that when he hadn't been able to find her, his heart had leapt into his throat with the fear that she'd filled her pockets with rocks and walked out into the ocean.

"Afraid I might slit my wrists?" she said grimly.

"I wasn't," he lied, "Though now I'm concerned." He stood beside her, watching her closely – the slow hitching of her breathing, the trembling of her hands, the almost imperceptible shuddering of sobs held under the surface.

"If I were going to kill myself – and don't get me wrong, I've seriously thought about it – I would have done it already. It would be so easy too. There isn't exactly a shortage of guns around here..." She still hadn't opened her eyes to look at him.

"Emily!" he said, appalled. He couldn't tell if she were joking or not, but he didn't want her thinking it either way.

She finally opened her eyes to give him an unamused look. "Relax. I'm not going to do it."

"Still..." he said, letting out a small sigh of relief, "You should talk to someone about that." She waved away the suggestion as if it were a particularly annoying insect.

Then, as if they'd never spoken of suicide at all, she patted the ground beside her until he lowered himself to kneel next to her on the newly planted grass. It was still damp with dew and it soaked through the knees of his jeans until he shivered with the early morning chill. If the cold bothered her, she showed no sign of it. He thought about offering her his jacket, but he didn't want to disturb the moment with idle words.

"It's been three months today," she said softly. "It's the first time I've been to see him."

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"It's the first time I've seen his headstone," she added. "I couldn't help Ian choose it – it was just too much. We'd gone from choosing a kindergarten to choosing coffins. I couldn't do it."

"It's beautiful," he said because he felt like he should say _something_.

It was a very traditional stone: white marble carved with the image of a lamb and the words, 'Declan Oísin Doyle ~ Angels are guarding and they watch o'er thee' followed by the dates.

"He loved that lullabye," she said with a watery smile, referencing the inscription. "It was the only thing that soothed him as a baby. Ian used to sing it to him while he was in my belly and he'd press his little feet against Ian's hand. When he was born and they placed his little squirming body on my chest, I sang it to him so it was the first thing he heard. I didn't know it that last night when I sang him to sleep, but they would also be the last words he ever heard..."

"Oh, Emily..." Derek murmured, though there was nothing else to say.

If she heard him, she didn't respond. With still shaking fingers, she traced lightly over his name carved into the marble, a small loving smile playing about her lips. Then, she pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and left it at the base of the stone. "It was his favourite," she explained, "But Ian didn't like him to have them. It was our special thing."

Derek said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Together, they departed the cemetery. He pretended he didn't see as she attempted to subtly wipe her tears away.

They walked in silence past the church and through the village before she cleared her throat as if working up the nerve to say something. "About the other night..." she mumbled. She scraped her teeth along her bottom lip nervously.

"You don't have to..." he started to protest to spare them both the awkwardness of the coming conversation.

"No," she insisted, "I do. It was extremely improper of me. I apologize for putting you in an awkward position. You were right to have refused me – I clearly wasn't in my right mind and we both would have regretted it." Her cheeks were pink and she stared deliberately at the ground to avoid his eyes and the judgement she was afraid of seeing there.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a shrug, easily forgiving her.

"No, really," she persisted. "I know what happened between us...happened. But it was something that we shouldn't have done. It was a one time mistake and to repeat it would just be foolish. So, thank you for being in your right mind."

"Think nothing of it."

She smiled at him, but it was tight, forced.

"You should go to a support group," he said suddenly, though he'd been thinking it for some time.

She laughed, a little hysterically. "I don't think so."

"Really," he said, nudging her with his elbow. "You need friends, someone who understands your loss, what you're going through. Someone you can talk to, who has experienced the same things and can give you advice."

"You understand..." she pointed out quietly.

He sighed heavily. "I think the less time we spend together, the better. Like you said, we don't want Ian to suspect impropriety." He didn't want to say it, but he knew it was better that he did.

She nodded slowly, gaze unfocused and distant, mind a million miles away. "You're right. It's better this way."

He nodded and she didn't see the sadness in his eyes. He didn't say it was because he liked her, perhaps too much. He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: I've been momentarily inspired...can't say how long it will last, so I'm going to ride the wave as far as it takes me. Hopefully, that will be until the end of the story (even if I have no idea what that ending is going to look like** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ **). Leave me a review telling me who you hope Emily ends up with! Thanks to everyone who reads.**

* * *

Emily and Ian had gone to exactly one support group meeting. Ian wasn't the support group type, but Emily was so desperately lost in her grief that he'd been willing to try anything to help her.

Ian wasn't about to share his story and Emily tried _so_ hard to share, to connect, but the senselessness, the violence of her son's death felt so out of place next to the long drawn out suffering of cancer. The sudden wrongness of losing her healthy happy son didn't compare, no matter how desperately she wanted a friend in her misery.

They wouldn't be going back a second time.

* * *

Derek pulled up at the side of the road to let Emily to get into the car, then sat wordlessly waiting for her to say something.

"Drive," she said simply. "Please." She sounded close to tears.

He obeyed wordlessly, but continued to wait for an explanation for the sudden call to pick her up at the side of the highway. He glanced in the rearview mirror at her, finding red-rimmed puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks staring back at him. He continued to say nothing as she started sobbing until finally he couldn't stand it anymore. "Emily..." he said gently, "What happened?"

"We had a disagreement – he said we never should have gone and it was my fault, I accused him of not caring enough to try. We argued. I said maybe I didn't care to ride in a car with someone like him. He said fine and pulled over. So, I got out. I'm sure he's at some bar somewhere drinking himself into a stupor. If he's smart, he won't come back..."

"Did he...?" he started to ask. He'd never witnessed him so much as raise a hand to her, but he also knew Ian Doyle was unpredictable and would kill you as soon as look at you, so he couldn't be sure.

"Hit me?" She laughed humorlessly. "He'd never. He would never hurt me. He knows he wouldn't live to tell the tale."

He wanted to say that abandoning her at the side of the road was so much better, but didn't. Now was not the time.

"I feel so stupid," she said quietly.

He had a feeling he wasn't supposed to have heard, but asked anyway, "Why?"

"I should have known this would end badly. I'm cursed."

"Why do you think you're cursed?"

"Everyone I love leaves me," she whispered.

Derek pulled over to the side of the road, unable to stand her tears anymore. He climbed into the backseat, wrapping his arms around her heaving shoulders.

As her sobbing subsided, she glanced up at him through tear-clung lashes. "Kiss me..." she breathed.

"Emily, we talked about this," he said gently, squeezing her shoulder.

"Kiss me, Derek," she repeated, leaning in, lips ghosting over his.

He groaned softly. "You're married, Emily," he protested, but it was weak.

She tilted her head slightly, nose brushing against his. Her breath was hot on his lips and he was weak, so weak. He closed the slight gap and sealed her lips with his.

But only for the briefest of moments before coming to his senses. "Emily..." he protested.

"I don't care," she said, shaking her head and moving to take off his shirt. "I feel so alone... I don't want to feel alone."

He stilled her hands from their frantic work on his belt buckle, then moved to thread his hands in her hair to keep her in place.

"Please," she begged.

He stared into her eyes, searching for something. Finally, slowly, he nodded and leaned back in, this time attaching his lip to her neck.

She tilted her head to grant him better access, moaning softly. She again went for his belt, this time succeeding in getting it undone. She swung one leg over his hip to straddle his lap, her dress bunching up around her waist. She could feel him getting hard beneath her and she ground her hips against him.

"You want me," she husked, "Don't you?" She went for his zipper.

"Emily..." he warned, but it was weakened by the thick swallow that followed as she reached into his jeans to palm his length.

"You want me," she repeated, but it wasn't a question this time. "You want me."

"Yes..." He let out a strangled gasp as she rocked her hips against his. He batted her hands aside and pulled himself out of his boxers, stroking himself a few times. "You ready for this, Princess? You ready for this dick?"

She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and nodded eagerly.

He slid her panties to the side and pushed himself into her with a grunt. She hissed sharply, eyes flying shut. "Yes!" she let out in a strangled gasp.

He let out a smug little chuckle. "You know how to ride, Princess?"

She gave a cocky little grin, then used what leverage she had to start moving. She raised herself up to the point where he thought his cock might fall out of her, then dropped back down and he couldn't help but let out a hiss as her hot cunt enveloped him.

He gripped her hips tighter, finger tips sure to leave bruises on the delicate alabaster skin and he knew he should have been concerned about that, but couldn't bring himself to care – not when she was riding him with that sexy smirk on her lips.

"Fuck," he groaned, "You're so fucking sexy..." He palmed her breast through the fabric of her dress, bringing her nipple to a peak through the lace of her bra, then leaned forwards to take it between his teeth, scraping roughly across the delicate flesh.

She cried out sharply and her heat clenched around him, making his cock twitch inside her.

"If you keep that up, Princess, this is gonna be over all too soon," he warned her. She seemed to take that as a challenge, judging by the mischievous glint in her eyes as she clenched around him purposefully.

Her head tilted back, eyes falling shut, as she kept her slow, deliberate pace, rocking her hips against his. She couldn't help the pleased little mewls falling from her lips – he felt too damn good and she wanted this too damn bad.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Hold on, Princess..." He held tighter to her and thrust upwards, jolting her and making her yelp.

"Derek!"

"You like that?" he taunted, grinning when she nodded eagerly. He pumped his hips upwards, slamming into her, eliciting little hitching whines from her with each thrust. "You gonna cum for me?"

Again, she nodded desperately. Her nails dug into the muscles of his shoulders as she clung to him for dear life, entire body jolting with his thrusts.

He pressed his thumb to her clit, rubbing hard and fast, knowing he wasn't going to last very much longer. It only took a few moments before her entire body tensed and tightened and he could feel every spasm of her cunt around him.

She fell forwards, collapsing against his chest, panting against his sweat-slicked neck. "Derek..." she moaned softly, voice gravelly and satiated and that was all it took for his release to follow.

He shouted as he bucked up, spilling himself inside her.


	14. Chapter 14

Of three things, Emily was absolutely certain:

1.) She loved her husband with every fibre of her being.

2.) She was utterly and irresistibly attracted to Derek Morgan.

3.) She never should have slept with him.

She hadn't intended to cheat on her husband, had never wanted to...but somehow she'd found herself inextricably entangled in a six month affair with no desire to break off either relationship.

It had been what she'd needed at the time, what she'd needed to feel something again, to emerge from the suffocating numbness that had surrounded her since Declan's death. That wasn't to say she was blameless – she'd known full well what she was doing when she got into bed with Derek, the risks, the consequences. She'd known and she'd done it anyway.

Perhaps that was cheating, so to speak...trying to take the easy way out of her grief without doing the work to truly heal. Hubris, even. Trying to best demons in her mind by choosing not to acknowledge them.

She'd looked Hell in the face and said, _No, not today_...

Hell stared right back and said, _I can wait._

It had worked, for awhile, and things were good. Better than they had been for a long long time. But the piper must always be paid and she was finally learning the price.

The price, as it turned out, was complete and utter damnation.

That was her only thought as she stared at the positive pregnancy test in her trembling hand. She wanted to throw up and she wasn't entirely sure if it was morning sickness or the icy grip of fear on her stomach. Either way, she fell to her knees and retched, the test clattering to the floor with the rest of the shambles of her life.

The problem wasn't that she was pregnant. Or, rather, that wasn't the _only_ problem.

She'd been careful with Derek (or so she'd thought) and she'd only slept with Ian a handful of times of late, but both stood an equal chance of being the father. Therein lay the problem...

If it were Ian's, nothing would change. If it were Derek's, everything would. And she had no way of knowing which it would be.

She retched again, tears springing to her eyes and she blinked hard to keep them at bay.

She'd been stupid, _so_ ridiculously stupid...she loved Ian, she'd always loved him, and she'd risked everything for a desperate thoughtless fling. Now, she stood a very real chance of losing him and the thought scared her shitless. She was barely hanging on with him at her side, she didn't think she could survive if he weren't there.

God, how could she have let this happen?

She leaned back against the wall, knees pulled into her chest, hyperventilating a little, overwhelmed with panic. How would she tell Ian? How would she tell Derek?

How would she do anything when she was paralyzed with fear on the bathroom floor?

The bathroom door burst open at that moment and, before she could demand he stay out, Ian was kneeling at her side, concern in his blue eyes as he inspected her for signs of injury or illness.

"I'm fine," she insisted as he felt her forehead for fever. Then, more convincing, "I'm _fine_."

"You're not fine," he argued, wiping away her tears with the back of his fingers. She hadn't even realized she was crying. He tucked her hair behind her ear with gentle fingers. "You're green," he pointed out. Before she had the chance to reassure him a third time, his gaze landed on the pregnancy test still sitting abandoned on the floor. He picked it up with reverent fingers, then lifted his eyes to meet hers.

They shone with such hope, such love, and it broke her, just a little, to see him so happy. She nodded once, twice, attempted to muster a smile. _This is a good thing_ , she told herself, over and over, hoping that if she said it enough she'd believe it.

"Oh, Emily..." he breathed, stunned. Then, he was crushing her against his chest.

"You're happy?" she choked out, breathless from the force of his embrace.

"Of course I'm happy," he whispered, dropped a kiss to the top of her head. "We're having a baby..."

 _Right..._ her traitorous mind whispered. _'We'..._

Ian had always wanted a big family. Emily, on the other hand, would have been happy with one. And when it had taken so long for them to get pregnant at all, they'd both agreed that if Declan was the only child fate would give them, they'd be thankful every day that they had him.

(Sometimes, Emily wondered if they hadn't been thankful enough and that was why he'd been taken away.)

"Are we ready for a baby? We weren't trying, weren't even planning..." she pointed out because apparently, she could never be content with what was, always poking holes in their life raft.

"Perhaps that means fate is trying to tell us something," he said, finally releasing her so that he could kiss her properly. The love she saw shining in his eyes made her want to be sick with guilt all over again.

"What's that?" she asked, throat suddenly feeling very dry.

"That it's time to move on. To heal. Declan is at peace and it's time for us to live our lives again."

And, God, she'd like to believe that was possible. "We can't replace him..." she murmured. Her eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly finding the tiles irresistibly interesting, unable to meet his gaze any longer without ugly truths bubbling up against her will.

"We're not replacing him," he replied, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look at him. "We never could. I would never want to. But we can have a second chance at our family."

She attempted a smile again and hated how forced it felt because he was right – this _was_ a second chance.

The question was...a second chance for whom?


	15. Chapter 15

Derek wordlessly handed Emily a coffee cup when she emerged from the bathroom of the cafe, having stopped in so she could throw up the little breakfast she'd been able to stomach that morning.

Emily noted where the barista had scrawled the word _decaf_ across the side of the cup. "You know?" she asked, looking up to meet Derek's eyes. It wasn't really a question – there was only one reason he would order her a decaf coffee.

"It's kind of hard to miss the morning sickness," he said. His voice was strangely devoid of emotion, his eyes lacking their usual sparkle. "Or the way your husband has been nearly walking on air lately."

It was true – Ian had been overjoyed since he'd seen the test, which meant he'd been a little less abrasive than usual. Not to mention treating her with kid gloves. She supposed she couldn't be surprised that Derek knew, even if she'd been hoping to delay his finding out until she knew what to say to him, knew what she was going to do...something more than the silence she had to offer him just then.

There were so many things she needed to say to him in that moment, but all of them failed her and she could do nothing but shake her head softly, sadly, unable to look away from the conflicting emotions flashing across his face.

"Is the baby mine?" he asked, coming right out and asking the question she'd hoped he wouldn't.

"I don't know," she whispered, a swell of tears climbing the back of her throat.

He wasn't sure why the knowledge that she'd been intimate with her husband at the same time she'd been with him hit him quite as hard as it did, considering that he'd known full well she was married when they'd met... He swallowed thickly, nodding, trying to find anything at all to say. "Do you want it to be?"

Evidently that had been the wrong thing to say, judging by the little whimper that forced its way past her lips. She blinked hard a few times, shook her head again. "You can't ask me that..." she begged.

"Emily, I..." He shrugged emptily because there were simply no words.

"I didn't plan this," she said when the silence dragged on too long. "I didn't want this to happen. But I can't _not_ have this baby..."

It had taken Emily all of about fifteen seconds to fall in love with the child growing in her womb. Ian, even less. And regardless of how this baby had come to be, they'd been given a child, and there was no question in either of their minds that they were keeping it. Ian was a firm believer in fate – fate had given them a baby and when fate wanted you to have something, there was no arguing. Emily, on the other hand, had no such belief...but while she believed in abortion, she knew she couldn't get a second one.

She hoped Derek could understand that.

"And if it _is_ mine?" he asked. "Won't that be rather hard to hide?"

"I don't _know_ ," she said, a little desperately and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

Feeling guilty for upsetting her, he reached out to squeeze her upper arm gently, hoping she understood the silent apology. "Congratulations," he murmured, even though the word felt like thorns.

Her smile was clearly forced as she thanked him, saying more about her state of mind than words possibly could.

* * *

"You're going to be a big brother," Emily announced to the silence of the graveyard, settling herself on the ground before Declan's grave. "I know you always wanted a baby brother or sister..."

The spring that Declan had turned four, he'd found a litter of kittens abandoned under the back porch and he'd begged them to let him keep them. As Emily watched Ian teach him to feed the kittens with an eye dropper with all the gentleness and patience in the world, she'd felt a pang of want in her chest and she'd known then that she wanted another baby.

Even knowing all the heartache that had come the first time they'd tried for a baby, she was ready to be hurt again, knowing just how worthwhile it had been in the end.

When they'd explained to Declan what it meant to be a big brother, his little eyes lit up and he'd eagerly hugged both of them, promising to share his toys and feed the baby a bottle just like he'd fed the kittens.

"You would have been the best brother," she whispered, a sad little smile on her lips. "You were always so sweet and caring. You made me proud every single day." She would have loved him no matter what, but she'd always been secretly thankful that he hadn't inherited his father's occasional cruel streak.

A gentle hand landed on her shoulder then, startling her.

"Telling him the good news?" Ian's voice asked, soft and reverent in the hallowed quiet of the cemetery.

"He would have been so happy," she said by way of answering. "He told me once that if he had a sister, he'd name her Skye...after the dog in _Paw Patrol_." He used to watch the show so many times Emily was certain he must know all the words to each episode, but it had made him happy, so she'd never complained, no matter how crazy it drove her.

Ian couldn't help but laugh, but it held a hint of sadness. "It's a nice name."

She nodded her agreement. "I hope it's a girl," she murmured. She didn't know if she could look at a baby boy and not compare him to Declan, if she could love a boy as much with the shadow of her dead son looming over her shoulder...it wouldn't be fair and she couldn't live with herself knowing she didn't love him as much.

Ian, for his part, seemed to understand her thoughts exactly. "You're a good mother," he said gently, pulling her to her feet. "When you meet our child, you'll love him or her. I've no doubt of that."

She attempted a smile, but it was watery.

He gently brushed a thumb over her bottom lip. "There it is," he whispered, "That beautiful smile. It's been hiding too much of late."

Her smile turned shy then because he knew exactly how to make her heart flutter, even after all the time they'd been together, and she wondered how she'd ever let herself stray when he loved her so strongly, so purely, so fully.


	16. Chapter 16

A gentle knock came at the bedroom door, sending Emily's head reeling. Her legs were wobbly underneath her and she lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed, lest her legs give out from under her. She'd been in the process of getting dressed, but every movement tested her stomach's precarious hold on her breakfast, so she was only half decent, though she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Come in," she called out, even though she was only wearing a bra and her pyjama pants. She knew it was only Louise, as Ian had taken Derek to a meeting with a new supplier (having made her promise she wouldn't leave the house...not that she could anyway with her nausea in its current state), and after Louise had walked in on her and Ian in bed once, she couldn't be any further humiliated in front of the woman.

Louise came bustling into the room with a tray laden with crackers and soup, apparently having intuited the unstable state of Emily's stomach. "Are you alright, Mrs. Doyle?" she asked in a soft voice, eyeing the waxy greenish tint to her skin with concern.

If she'd had any capacity left for feeling embarrassed over her appearance – her unkempt hair, the bags under her eyes, the corpse-like appearance of her skin – she might've shied away from the other woman's concerned gaze, but as it stood, she simply didn't care. "I feel like death warmed over," Emily groaned, head in her hands to try to stop the spinning.

Setting the tray down, Louise felt Emily's forehead with the back of her hand, humming a note of worry. "No wonder – you're running a fever," she diagnosed. "To bed with you, Dear." A look of fear must have crossed her face because Louise gently stroked her hair in such a maternal gesture it made Emily's heart ache. "You needn't worry – it's just the little one causing havoc on your system. But best be cautious nonetheless."

Briefly, Emily wondered how, even though they'd told no one about the pregnancy, everyone seemed to know.

As if reading that thought, Louise said, "I'm from good Irish stock, Dear, I've seen enough women with child to know when someone's expecting." Without waiting for a response, she turned down the covers, waiting for Emily to return to bed with an expectant look on her face.

Wordlessly obeying, Emily climbed back under the covers, not caring that it was the middle of the day or that she'd only recently woken up, if only her head would stop spinning. Louise nodded once, satisfied, as she pulled the covers up over her, tucking her in like a child.

Emily briefly wondered if this was what it was like to have a mother that cared as she proceeded to place the tray in Emily's lap. Her stomach made a plaintive noise and she wasn't sure she could stomach the soup just then, instead taking a tentative bite of the corner of a saltine, chewing slowly.

She thought back to being pregnant with Declan – a polar opposite experience to this one, thus far. For all the trouble they'd had conceiving him, the pregnancy had been a breeze. She'd felt barely any nausea – instead, she'd been ravenous all the time and Ian kept teasing her that the baby would come out fully grown at the rate she was eating. She'd just laughed every time he'd said it because there was nothing that could have dampened her spirits when she knew there was a life growing inside her.

"Do you think Declan would be upset?" she suddenly asked in the faintest whisper. "Do you think he thinks we're trying to replace him?"

Emily didn't have many friends – she'd never been good at opening herself up to people in that way, at risking being hurt. For the most part, she was okay with that, with being alone. It was as much a fact of life as the sky being blue and it had about as much chance of changing.

Louise was one of the few people she trusted explicitly. She supposed that was why she'd finally put voice to the fear that had been plaguing her for the last few weeks since her doctor had confirmed the pregnancy.

"Declan is with God now, Dear. He knows all, sees all. There is only truth for him," Louise answered without thought, without hesitation. She had absolute certainty in her belief.

Emily had never been very good at faith. Especially in God. Perhaps she was just jaded, but she found it hard to believe in anyone that would take her baby boy away from her without rhyme or reason. She found it hard to believe in anything at all lately.

"Declan may be gone, but you've one yet to arrive that needs you," Louise reminded her gently. She pressed a bottle of water into Emily's hand and looked at her sternly until she drank from it. "If Ian were here, he'd be watching over you like a mother hen, so you'd best take good care of yourself and the little one 'til he gets back or he'll box my ears..."

Emily sipped the water distractedly as Louise bustled around the room, opening the drapes and collecting the laundry, then after a moment she blurted out, "If I told you something, would you keep it a secret? From Ian?"

Louise turned to look at her with a smile so full of fondness and compassion it nearly broke Emily clean in two. "About Mr. Morgan?" she guessed. There was no judgement in her eyes, no condemnation...only sadness.

The breath caught in Emily's lungs. "How... How do you know about that?" she choked out.

"Don't fret, Dear, Ian is still in the dark," she assured her, understanding the fear in her eyes. "But you should tell him..."

Emily felt like she'd been punched square in the chest. "He'd kill me..." she whispered. "And Derek. And then me again." She have a small hysterical laugh. "He can never _ever_ know. We're just beginning to fix things between us, this would ruin _everything_."

"That man loves you more than life itself. You're the only woman he's ever loved. And if that baby isn't his, it will break his heart," Louise said sagely.

"That's just it," Emily whispered. "It will _break_ him. I can't do that to him. He's barely held it together since Declan... I can't shatter him like this. I just _can't_."

Louise patted her hand gently, that look of understanding still shining in her eyes. "You have to tell him."

Emily nodded slowly, tongue flicking out over her top lip in thought. She was right. She knew she was right. But knowing it and acting on it were two very different things...


	17. Chapter 17

Louise's words were still ringing in Emily's ears a week later as she sat on the exam table in her OB/GYN's office, waiting for the doctor. Ian deserved the truth, logically she knew that, because every day she didn't tell him, he fell more and more in love with a baby that may or may not be his. But she also knew that she might lose him either way.

She _didn't_ know whether what she had with Derek was real, was strong enough to withstand a new baby and a real relationship. Whether she even wanted a relationship with him at all...

She _did_ know that she was a piece of shit for doing this to the people she cared about it. And all she could think about was that sooner or later, she was going to break someone's heart.

Calloused fingers stroking a stray lock of hair behind her ear startled her from her trance. "Are you nervous?" Ian asked.

"Fucking terrified," she admitted. She felt bad that she wasn't filled with joy and excitement over the prospect of seeing her child for the first time, hearing its heartbeat, but she felt she could be forgiven, given the circumstances.

She shifted uncomfortably on the table, the paper crinkling underneath her sounding like thunder in the hallowed silence of the exam room, the hospital gown like sandpaper against her skin.

"Everything is going to be alright," he assured her, smile soft and comforting, "This baby is going to be healthy and perfect, just like Declan." He leaned in to kiss her forehead.

She nodded, but said nothing, letting him believe that that was the source of her concern, rather than the massive secret bubbling inside her and threatening to ruin _everything_.

"This baby is clearly a fighter," he continued, letting one hand stray to rub the slight swell of her belly in a gesture so tender it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"How do you figure?" she asked, voice cracking.

"Anyone who wanted to be here so badly as this one, obviously takes after his father," he insisted.

Emily didn't bother asking why he was so certain it was a boy, just shook her head, a slight smile fighting its way past her lips.

"What do you think of the name Delaney?" he continued on, taking note of the smile, faint as it was. "For our son?"

"Perhaps for a girl," she countered, giving in to his attempt to cheer her up, "I like the name Matthew, for a son. It means 'gift of God'...it seems fitting." If there was one thing of which she was certain, it was that she'd been given a gift in this new child.

They'd chosen the name Declan because it meant 'full of goodness'. And he'd been perfect. Too perfect, perhaps, for two such flawed people as them. Perhaps that was why God had taken him back...there were people out there more fitting, more deserving for such an angel. So innocent, so sweet, so _perfect –_ he'd be a good angel.

Ian's smile was full of so much hope, seeing her taking an interest in the future again, in their family. "I like the name Matthew," he agreed, still stroking her hair entirely too tenderly. "Matthew Finian, perhaps. So he has the Irish touch."

Blinking back tears, she nodded, tried to smile.

Noticing the sheen of tears in her eyes, he took both of her hands in his and gently squeezed. "I know you're fearful," he murmured, "That we'll lose the baby, like we lost Declan. That we're cursed because of who I am. But you can't think that way, Love. You have to believe that we've been given a second chance. I refuse to believe God would do that to us again – to _you_... You've the purest heart I know to exist. If anyone deserves this child, it's you."

Emily gave a wet little laugh, feeling worse with every word he spoke. "I'm not that innocent," she whispered, with a little shake of her head. If only he knew...

Anything he might've said in reply was lost as the doctor entered the room, but it was impossible to miss the concern flashing in his eyes.

* * *

As Emily was getting redressed, the doctor knocked on the door, poked her head into the room.

She knew the drill – standard procedure to ask if there was anything she didn't feel comfortable saying in front of Ian, if she was being abused. (The thought was almost laughable... Ian may not have been a good man, but she knew he'd never hit her. They both knew he'd lose a hand if he tried.)

"Actually, there is something..." Emily whispered, voice barely there at all, as the doctor reached for the door knob. "This baby..." she started, faltered. "This baby might not be Ian's..." she confessed, hating herself more with each word.

For her part, the doctor's face betrayed no judgement. "Do you know who the other potential father is?"

Emily nodded vehemently – she may have been a whore, but she wasn't _that_ much of a whore... She dug in her pocket for the family history she'd had Derek write up before the appointment and handed it to the doctor, cheeks flaming red, absolutely mortified that she had to do this at all.

The doctor glanced quickly at the sheet, then nodded once. "I'll put this in your file."

"And you won't say anything to Ian?" she practically begged.

"Anything you say to me is completely confidential," the doctor assured her.

If that was supposed to make her feel better, it didn't... "We, umm..." she stammered, "We banked Declan's cord blood..." Between her over-developed maternal anxiety and Ian's sparing no expense for his son, they'd gladly paid the exorbitant fee to keep the cord blood, just in case. (For all the good that had done...)

The doctor glanced at her notes briefly. "We still have it banked," she noted. Sensing where she was going, she asked, "Would you like me to run it against this baby's DNA to see if it's a full sibling match?"

Emily sank her teeth into her bottom lip, conflicted. But only for a moment before nodding. She needed to know...


	18. Chapter 18

Accepting that there were things outside of her control had never been one of Emily's strong suits.

Perhaps that was why losing Declan had been so devastating – she'd built up this image in her mind of how his life would go, all the moments she'd have with him, and with all the sudden forcefulness of a punch to the gut, he was gone and the future she'd built in her mind collapsed around her like the shambles of the block castle he'd left on his bedroom floor.

Perhaps that was why packing up the pieces of his life left unfinished felt like packing up his memory and putting him on a shelf, like saying she was finished with a part of her life she'd never wanted to be over.

She considered that as she watched Derek haul the last of the boxes of Declan's toys down to the basement where they'd be stored until the baby was old enough to play with its brothers hand-me-downs.

It had taken weeks of internal debate, but she wanted this baby to grow up in the room where Declan had been so vibrantly _alive –_ where he'd laughed and played and slept. Where he'd gotten into the crayons and drawn on the wall and she'd never had the heart to wash away his art. Where she'd rocked him in her arms as he fell asleep at her breast. Where she'd told him she loved him and he'd replied he loved her more. That was where the baby would be closest to Declan's memory.

So, piece by piece, she'd disassembled the tableau of her son's last night of life and put it into boxes with the little bits of her soul irrevocably tied to them. To make way for a new life.

That's what she kept telling herself, at least. Reminding herself that Declan would want this.

"That's the last of them," Derek said, dusting his hands off on his jeans, then leaning against the door frame, slightly out of breath. She nodded once, attempted a smile in thanks. "We can go into town this afternoon and pick out the paint you'd like," he continued. "Ian said you're not allowed near the fumes, but I can have it done in a few days."

She nodded again, only half-listening.

"A soft green, maybe?" he suggested.

"You should leave," she said, startling him with the quiet rasp of her voice. Her back was to him as she stared out the window, where the gates of the cemetery could just be seen glinting in the sun on the horizon.

"Ex-excuse me?" he stammered, confused.

"Far away from here," she continued, still not looking at him. "Never look back."

"Em, what are you talking about?"

She turned then, suddenly. "He'll kill you, you know..." She must have noticed his look of confusion because she elaborated, "If this baby isn't his, he'll kill you. And probably me, once I give birth." She shook her head, not quite sadly, like she'd accepted the reality of her imminent death. "And if it is, well..." She shrugged, but the look in her eyes made it clear that she didn't want to break his heart like that.

"And if I said I loved you and being near you is better than nothing at all?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "I'd say you deserve better."

"Emily..." he started.

She just shook her head again. "I like the blue walls," she said as if he hadn't spoken. "But maybe some Winnie the Pooh decals. Declan had a Tigger blanket that he loved."

For a long moment, he watched her expressionless face, searching for something to say, but there were no words for the feeling clawing its way up his throat. Eventually, he nodded. "I like Tigger."

* * *

"Come to bed, Love. Baby needs rest," Ian murmured from the doorway to the nursery.

Emily lifted her head to meet his gaze from where she had Declan's Tigger blanket spread across her stomach. She smiled faintly. "Do you remember when he was first born and they put him on my chest and he rooted around for my breast, snuffling like a little piglet?"

Chuckling softly, he replied, "When he first latched on, I swear he looked straight at me and gave me the finger – I should have known right then that it would be almost a year before those breasts were mine again."

She gave a snort of laughter. "At least you didn't have to deal with his little stapler teeth for months on end..."

"What happened to 'breath-feeding is a miracle'?" he asked, one brow raised.

"A _painful_ miracle," she amended. "And yet, when I think back, all I can remember is the sweet smell of his head and the way his eyes would meet mine and he'd smile faintly at me and it was just _us_..."

He crossed the room to kneel before the rocking chair she sat in, resting his hands on her knees. "You're not replacing him," he said softly, as if reading her mind. "You'll always have those moments."

"Five years of moments," she murmured, gaze soft and unfocused. "And the only ones I ever seem to remember are those last ones – the ones where I was half out the door, begging him to stay in bed because we were late. I could have waited five minutes, given him one more hug, one more kiss good night. That's all I ever think about."

"I can't stop thinking about that afternoon – I'd scolded him for getting jelly all over the kitchen when he'd been trying to make lunch for me. At five years old, I think he was a better man than I'll ever be..." He shook his head sadly, eyes shining with rarely shown emotion.

She reached out to tenderly stroke his cheek, his stubble rough beneath her fingers. "The last thing he said to me was, 'Will you always love me?' I said, 'Yes, even when you're a pain in the ass...'" She choked on a wet little laugh.

He echoed the sound. "He _was_ a pain sometimes," he agreed. "And I wouldn't have traded him for the world." He stood up, leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Come to bed, Love."

He made it as far as the doorway when her faint voice stopped him. "Will you always love me?" she said, almost apropos of nothing. "No matter what?"

"Of course, Love," he promised. "You're the one good that's been given to me in this life and I don't plan to ever let you go."

Her responding smile was sad. "Not that good..." she whispered, more to herself than to him, guilt burning a hole in her chest.


	19. Chapter 19

Emily settled gingerly on the edge of the bed, the feeling that she didn't belong in her own bed, her own _life_ growing inside her chest until she could hardly breathe. She bit down on the feeling, though, keeping it inside, lest it spill out and ruin everything.

The bed dipped as Ian settled beside her and she could feel his eyes on her back, watching as she rubbed lotion on the skin of her belly, stretching to accommodate the growing life inside her.

When she'd gotten pregnant with Declan, part of her had expected that Ian would find her changing body, her swelling stomach repellant – that he would be unable to so much as look at her. She'd fully anticipated that he'd find someone younger and prettier and _looser_ to satisfy him until she gave birth. Instead, he'd seemed to find her more seductive than ever, hardly able to keep his hands off of her.

As if reading her mind, she felt the scrape of his stubble against her skin as he leaned down to press a kiss to her shoulder. One of his hands came to rest on her belly, the callous on his trigger finger rough against the sensitive skin, making her shudder.

"You're so beautiful, Love," he murmured close to her ear, pressed a kiss behind it. "You've always been beautiful, but with life growing inside you...you're radiant."

She gasped quietly, breath rattling all the way down to her lungs. "Ian..." she whispered, knowing where he was going with this, not entirely sure she wanted to dissuade him, but knowing she should, if for no other reason than it wasn't fair to him to keep leading him on this way.

His lips pressed against her neck, travelling from her ear down to her clavicle, insistent in his desire, but tender too and she knew that if she really didn't want this, she only need say so.

Perhaps it made her a bad person, knowing that the baby she was carrying might not be his while still sleeping beside him at night, still kissing him and telling him she loved him...but she'd long ago given up the pretense that she was a good person.

She turned her head to catch his lips, exhaling softly at the contact, eyes fluttering shut. "Ian..." she breathed again when she pulled away for air.

"I know, Love," he replied, just as soft, just as reverent. "I know."

She laced her fingers with his where his hand rested on her belly. "I've missed you," she said, turning just enough so she could kiss him properly, letting her kiss say everything she couldn't put into words.

He slipped his other hand under the back of her shirt, fingers tracing soft circles on her spine.

He was so soft, so delicate with her, it made tears clog her throat – he was better than she deserved. She kissed him harder to ignore the burn of guilt, even if she couldn't make it go away.

He chuckled softly. "You really have missed me..." he murmured, smirk clear in his tone. He'd always liked when she was vocal about wanting him.

She nodded, biting her lip coyly. She slid a hand down her rounded stomach and slipped it into her panties.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her jaw. "Slow down, Love," he rasped, closing his fingers around her wrist, halting her movement.

She whimpered softly.

"Hush, Love, I'll get you there," he promised. She struggled slightly against his grip and he nipped punishingly at her jaw. "Patience," he chided.

She trembled slightly, letting out a ragged breath of air.

"Lie back," he ordered gently, one hand pressing into her hip, guiding her down towards the mattress. "Good girl," he murmured as she let the tension bleed out of her, lying still. He was being sweet with her, gentle even.

He leaned down to lavish attention on her belly, pressing kisses to the slight swell, trailing lower and lower, until he produced a sharp gasp from her. She lifted her hips and he obliged in removing her panties then, so he could pay proper attention to her soaked pussy.

He chuckled a little, trailing two fingers through her wetness. "Someone's eager..."

She nodded insistently, squirming a little at the faint contact when she was desperate for more.

Obligingly, he leaned down to run his tongue through her folds and she couldn't help but cry out. He bit down on her inner thigh scoldingly and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from making further sound as he returned to his ministrations.

With her increasingly raging hormones, it didn't take long for him to work her to a fever pitch, though he pulled away before she came, leaving her panting and whimpering and eager for more. While she squirmed and mewled underneath him, he travelled up her body, leaving kisses in his wake, until he reached her lips.

"Em..." he rasped, bringing her attention to him, her eyes locking with his as he guided himself inside her with a soft grunt as her wet heat enveloped his length. She gasped sharply at the intrusion as he started to move inside her, pushing in to the hilt before withdrawing and pushing in again.

She chanted his name over and over in a breathy prayer. He leaned his forehead against hers, unable to look away from the way her face contorted in ecstasy, the way only he got to see. And when she came with a breathy cry and he followed soon after, the image of her climax burning itself into his brain, he couldn't help but count himself lucky that he got to have her.

* * *

Emily slept uneasily that night, guilt burning up the back of her throat like bile.

Late into the night, she lay on her side, watching Ian sleep, softly tracing the lines of his face, relaxed in a way she rarely saw in his waking life. She loved him so fully, so completely, it made her heart hurt.

She wanted to be better.

She wanted to be the wife he deserved.


	20. Chapter 20

" _Son of a_..."

CRASH.

" _Stupid mother f-"_

Ian followed the stream of colourful language to the nursery, poking his head inside to find Emily standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, looking murderous. "What in the world are you doing, Love?" he asked, trying not to laugh at the homicidal expression on her face (so familiar on his own, but so foreign on her beautiful features), knowing she might very well disembowel him if he did.

She whipped around as if surprised by his presence, looked briefly guilty over her histrionics, then gestured pointedly at the pile of wood that was presumably supposed to be a crib but appeared to be actively resisting all attempts to make it crib-like.

"And the swearing?" he pressed, brow quirked.

This time, there was no guilt crossing her face. She mashed her lips together, shooting the not-a-crib a glare as if it had personally wronged her. "The stupid thing is _impossible_ to put together," she growled, stabbing the air threateningly with a screwdriver. "You need some kind of engineering degree just to read the instructions."

He didn't bother pointing out she was using the wrong kind of screwdriver, lest she eviscerate him with said screwdriver. "Why don't you leave it and I'll have Derek put it together – he knows what he's doing with tools." He remembered attempting to put the damn thing together before Declan was born...he'd also been reduced to cursing a blue streak at the thing and then making Liam finish it before he set the whole thing ablaze. "Besides, you shouldn't be lifting anything too heavy in your condition." As if to punctuate the sentiment, he crossed the room to caress her belly with affectionate tenderness reserved for when she was pregnant.

"No!" she snapped, entirely too vehement. Seeing his taken aback expression, she paused, sighed, wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She looked back at Ian with what she hoped was a contrite look. "I just... I want the baby's room to be done by _us_. I know I'm probably being irrational and it doesn't make any sense, but..." She shook her head, trailing off with a pleading look.

She couldn't explain it, not without telling him everything. Telling him that if Derek helped her put the nursery together, it was letting him get invested in the baby that might be his. And if it wasn't his, she didn't think she'd be able to look at a room he'd put together without remembering the awful thing she'd done, without his memory tainting her ability to move on from the past with her new family. If it _was_ his...well...

He gently eased the screwdriver from her hand so he could take her hands in his, squeezing gently, thumbs tracing across the back of her knuckles. "If that's what you want, I'll put the crib together tomorrow." He lifted her hands so he could press a kiss to the back of each. She opened her mouth to protest that she could do it, that she wasn't an invalid just because she was pregnant, but he didn't let her get the words out, already knowing exactly what she'd say. "You're going to destroy the thing – or yourself – trying to put it together...and it was a _very_ expensive crib."

She barked out a laugh. "You're an ass," she scolded, but she said it with a fond smile.

He winked, tugged her into his chest, capturing her lips in a kiss. His hand landed on her hip, fingers teasing the sliver of skin exposed as her shirt rode up, his other hand tangling in her hair. She wrapped an arm around his neck, deepening the kiss, humming contentedly against his lips.

They were interrupted then, by Derek clearing his throat from the doorway.

They broke apart at the sound – Emily's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Ian looking almost murderous at the interruption. Derek held out the phone to Emily, decidedly trying to avoid looking either of them in the eye. "Your doctor is on the line," he said, "I figured you'd want to take the call..."

Emily's heart was suddenly in her throat and she snatched the phone away, then offered an apologetic smile for her abruptness. With a motion, she attempted to shoo both men from the room.

Derek attempted to catch her eye before departing, gaze full of questions she didn't need voiced to read, but she was steadfastly avoiding eye contact lest she fall apart then and there.

Ian, on the other hand, raised a brow in question as she typically made it a point to request that he be involved in every aspect of her pregnancy. Emily sighed, trying not to roll her eyes at him. "Do you really want to listen to a discussion about my cervix?" she asked pointedly.

He shrank back at the word – supportive as he was, he was still rather old-school and tended to balk when the subject of anything gynecological came up. "I'll give you some privacy," he said, as if it were his idea.

She smiled her thanks as he shut the door behind him, then waited a good thirty seconds for him to get far enough away that he wouldn't overhear. "Hello?" she answered, voice shaking with nerves and anticipation. She exchanged pleasantries with the doctor before she couldn't wait any longer, asking in a rush, "Do you have the DNA results?"

There was something in the doctor's voice, in the slight hesitation before she answered, that was enough to tell Emily the answer without words. Then, came the answer that would ruin everything: _"_ _There's a ninety-nine percent chance that Declan and this baby do not share the same father..."_

Anything else the doctor said was white noise rushing past her ears as Emily sank down to the floor, not trusting her legs to support her in that moment. Hand shaking, she let the phone clatter to the floor. She hadn't hung up, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered...

Her life was over.


	21. Chapter 21

Emily settled herself on the edge of the pool, the movement slow and awkward around her gradually burgeoning belly. She dipped her feet into the cool water, splashing about a little, the scent of chlorine rising up around her – the water a welcome relief from the increasingly oppressive heat of the Irish summer.

Sleep had eluded her that night, dark thoughts of how well and truly she'd fucked up her life with a small moment of weakness settling unshakably in her mind, and she was rather hoping to avoid having Ian ask what was wrong, saving her from having to lie to him, so she'd given up the pretense of sleep altogether.

She didn't know how she was going to face him now, how she was going to continue living every moment by his side like nothing was wrong, like nothing had changed, all while knowing the child in her womb wasn't his...

She'd honestly, in her heart of hearts, thought the baby was Ian's. Maybe she'd been naive for believing that things would work out the right way, the easy way just because she hoped real hard. With everything in her, she'd hoped and wished and prayed, begging any God who'd listen to just _once_ grant her this favour that she absolutely didn't deserve, but for the innocent child inside her who didn't deserve to start their life this way.

And now... There was no easy way out of this – no _right_ way... No matter what she did, someone was going to get hurt. No matter what she did, her child was going to lose.

"Boy, I really stepped in it this time, didn't I, Little One?" she murmured to her belly, smoothing out her the fabric of her pyjamas over the swell of her stomach. "And you're the one that has to suffer the consequences..."

She gave a dry little laugh, devoid of any humour. "You're going to get away with _murder_ when you're a teenager because you can always blackmail me with this." She paused, thought for a moment. "I'd say literally...but Ian isn't your Daddy."

She softly stroked her belly, sadness darkening her eyes.

"I hope you don't grow up to hate me, Little One. Though, I wouldn't blame you if you did... I really fucked up your family and now, no matter what I do, there's no coming back from it. Either I take away your father for the sake of my marriage or I ruin my marriage for a big 'what if?' with your father..."

She shook her head, sighed.

"And I don't even know if I _want_ to be with him... I know that sounds awful, considering I had no problem fucking him, but I was vulnerable and stupid and wasn't thinking about the consequences. He was just... _there_ and I guess that's what I needed at the time. I don't know if it would work long-term."

A pause.

"Maybe I should just pack my things and run away." She gave an unladylike snort. "What do you think? Could you and I make it on our own?" She prodded near her belly button as if in search of a reaction. "Yeah, me neither," she said after a long silence.

The gate surrounding the pool creaked as it opened and her heart leapt into her throat, wondering who'd come after her and how much they'd overheard.

Wordlessly, Ian settled beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. In spite of herself, she sighed contentedly, relaxing into his embrace. She couldn't help it...whoever he might've been, whatever she might've done, he was still her husband and she drew comfort from his presence.

After several silent moments but for the chirp of crickets in the field beyond the perfectly manicured yard and the mournful hooting of a far off owl, he murmured, "Baby keeping you up?" His hand crept along her stomach, almost without conscious thought.

"A troublemaker, like their father," she agreed, swallowing down the rising guilt at the blatant lie, watching his hand move so tenderly across her belly, with so much love for a child that wasn't his...she blinked rapidly to keep back the tears that wanted to well up at the thought.

"A troublemaker, am I, Love?" he repeated, brow raised, blissfully unaware of her emotional turmoil, all the things left unsaid between them that would someday soon bring his world crashing down around him.

She nodded readily, opened her mouth to insist that he was, but before she could get the words out, she had a mouthful of pool water as he pushed her in. When she resurfaced, he was doubled over with laughter. " _Ian_!" she shrieked.

He attempted to plaster on an innocent expression, but it was decidedly ruined by his inability to quash his mischievous grin.

"I'm going to _kill_ you," she growled, narrowing her eyes at him as she brushed her wet hair out of her face.

"Is that any way to speak to your loving husband?" he asked with mock ingenuousness.

"My _loving husband_ better help me out of this pool or, so help me, God..." She extended a hand, waiting for him to pull her out of the water with a pointed expression on her face.

"Oh, no..." He held his hands out of her reach. "I'm not about to fall for that one, Love. You're going to pull me in with you."

She raised a brow, hand still extended, waiting.

He shrugged, plunged in the pool with her.

"You're _crazy_ ," she insisted with a shake of her head, but she said it fondly as she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss him, ignoring every little voice, every instinct that told her how very wrong this was. She couldn't stop loving him any more than she could stop the world from turning.

"Only for you, Love," he murmured, one hand tangling in her hair, keeping her close. "Only for you." He kissed her soundly, one hand creeping along her thigh, up under the hem of her nightgown.


	22. Chapter 22

Derek groaned, rolled over to look at the clock – its bright red numbers flashing 1:17AM – trying to figure out what had woken him at such an ungodly hour.

There was another knock at his bedroom door, followed by a small frightened voice calling his name, and suddenly, he was wide awake. He'd never heard that kind of fear in Emily's voice before; even in her lowest moments, the ones where she was so very broken over losing her son, she'd always been unapologetically unafraid.

He opened the door to find her hunched over slightly, one arm curled protectively around her stomach. She let out a small pitiful whimper. "Something's wrong..." she whispered, words choked by fear. Her fingers tightened, fisting in the material of her silken pyjama top.

With a hand on her shoulder, he gently guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling down in front of her so he could get a better look at her, searching for some sign of distress. "Em?" he asked softly, gently squeezing her knee to get her attention. "Emily? What happened?"

A soft moan of pain floated past her lips. "I think I'm in labour," she croaked, eyes meeting his for the first time, the raw pain he saw there nearly taking his breath away.

"Labour?" he repeated dumbly, "How...? Are you sure?"

She grabbed his hand, placing it on her belly which was rock hard. "That's a contraction," she informed him impatiently. "They're coming every twenty minutes."

"Okay..." he said, trying not to panic, "Okay... No need to panic – Ian will..." Then, he remembered that Ian was gone on a 'business trip' for several days and he was solely responsible for Emily. If she lost the baby on his watch, he had little doubt that Ian wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet between his eyes. "Alright, let's go to the hospital." He hoped his voice sounded calmer than he felt because he'd never been less calm in his entire life.

"Wait..." She tightened her hand on his. "What if..." She stopped, shook her head, tongue flicking out over her top lip. "I can't lose this baby."

"You won't," he insisted, even though he knew he couldn't make that promise. "You're not going to lose it." Part of him wanted to point out that he was just as invested as she was in this child's life, but now was neither the time nor the place to have any kind of debate about parentage.

"How do you know?" she begged, desperation in her eyes, oblivious to his internal monologue.

He offered a tight smile. "Because there's an angel up there looking after his brother or sister."

That seemed to make her feel better, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing her lips for a moment before it was erased by pain and fright again.

* * *

If Emily had been a bad Catholic before Declan died, she wasn't sure what the correct label was for her faith now as she stared down the barrel of quite possibly losing another child... But in spite of whatever choices had lead her to this moment, she closed her eyes and prayed.

Prayed that God wouldn't punish this baby for her sins.

"I'm scared," she whispered to the room at large, eyes still tightly shut in spite of the tears leaking out. "Hold my hand?"

The next instant, she felt Derek's hand envelope hers, warm and steady where hers felt shaky and cold. She knew she shouldn't derive so much comfort from his presence, but he was all she had in that moment and she didn't think she could face this ultrasound alone, could face hearing the doctor say her baby had no chance.

 _Their_ baby...

She felt bile rise up the back of her throat – she barely had time to grab a sick pan before she was throwing up the meagre dinner she'd managed to eat. More tears flooded her eyes as Derek's hand landed on her back, gently rubbing up and down her spine as she heaved and coughed.

"It's going to be alright," he soothed, words warm against her ear, "The baby is going to be okay."

She shook her head insistently. "No, it's _not_ going to be alright," she hissed, " _Nothing_ is ever going to be alright! I'm having your baby and I'm going to break my husband's heart when he finds out!"

His hand stilled its movement on her back and she wasn't sure he was even breathing anymore as he stood frozen, utterly stunned. "You... You're..." he stammered. "It's... Are you sure?"

She burst into noisy sobs in spite of herself. "They called yesterday. I had them do a DNA test against Declan's cord blood. There's no chance it's Ian's baby."

* * *

"Did you call Ian?" Emily asked for the fifth time. She groaned, twisted uncomfortably in the hospital bed, though her movements were severely limited by the monitors she was connected to. The medication they'd given her to stop her premature labour had started to take effect, taking the edge off the pain, but her contractions had yet to subside fully and she was still deeply uncomfortable.

"I tried three times," he said again with a decided note of displeasure. He had his back turned to her, arms crossed over his chest. "He must have turned off his phone."

"Try again," she insisted, "He never turns off his phone." She was well aware she was being short with him, but she couldn't make herself stop, couldn't turn off her feelings, couldn't stop herself from wanting her husband in that moment.

"Are we going to talk about this, Emily?" he asked, ignoring her demand. He turned around to fix her with an unmistakably deliberate look.

"About what?" she replied, playing dumb, hoping he'd get the hint that she had no intention of addressing the elephant in the room.

"You're carrying _my_ baby, Emily!" he snapped. "Don't you think we should deal with that before your _husband_ gets back?"

"No."

"No!?" he repeated incredulously. "For God's sake, Emily! You're pregnant with _my child_ and all the while you're still carrying on with your husband like nothing's changed!" At her look of confusion, he continued pointedly, "Don't think I didn't see you fucking him in the pool the other night..."

"I don't know what you think is going to happen here," she said, determinedly not looking at him. "I'm not about to leave my husband for you because we had a short-lived fling at a time when I was emotionally vulnerable."

He supposed he should have seen that coming, considering how she'd pulled away lately in favour of working on her marriage, but her outburst still felt like a knife to the chest. "And when you deliver the baby and it doesn't look a thing like him?" he said, perhaps a little spitefully.

"I'm not having this conversation."

"You're burying your head in the sand, Emily. Sooner or later, you _will_ have to deal with this..."


	23. Chapter 23

Ian came sweeping into the room hours later, looking like he'd had the fear of God put into him. He was immediately at her side, one hand on either side of her face as if inspecting her for any sign of pain. He carefully brushed her hair behind her ears, smoothing down the flyaways, then pulled her close so he could press a kiss to her forehead.

"Oh, Em," he breathed, "I'm so sorry. I should have been there..."

The look of guilt on his face nearly took her breath away. "No, Ian, no," she insisted. "It wasn't your fault." She lifted a hand to rest it on top of his where it rested on her cheek, gently lacing their fingers.

He shook his head. "I should have been there," he repeated, firmer, more insistent. "What did the doctor say?" he asked.

"My cervix started to open prematurely," she paraphrased, "They've sutured it closed to prevent it from happening again, but they want me on bedrest until I reach full-term." She scowled. She'd rather be tortured than put on bedrest...

"But the baby's okay?" he asked.

"Baby's fine," she assured him.

"A warrior, like his Dadaí."

"Or _her_ ," she corrected, but she did so with a soft smile.

Both of them were ignorant to the blatant glare Derek was shooting them from across the room.

Ian laughed quietly, nodded his agreement to her correction. "Or her." He clasped her hands, bringing them up to his lips so her could kiss her knuckles tenderly. After a sweet moment passed between them, he straightened up, turned to Derek, offering a hand to shake.

Derek faltered, the glare falling from his face so quickly it was almost comical. He took Ian's proffered hand. "Sir?"

"Your quick action may have saved my child's life. I owe you a great debt."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Emily's expression of complete terror, fearing he may blow her secret. And for a brief moment, he legitimately considered it, but he knew that doing so would almost definitely get himself killed – and likely her as well, once she gave birth. For all the ways he hated her just then, he couldn't condemn the mother of his child to death...

Instead, he nodded once. "I was only doing my job," he said emotionlessly.

"You're a good man, Morgan," he said, clapping him on his shoulder firmly.

If only he knew...

* * *

It took approximately one week of bedrest for Emily to lose her mind entirely. (Though she supposed the case could be made that that had happened a long time ago...)

She was stretched out on the bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows, baby name book laying open on top of her belly as she watched Ian moving about the room, packing for another trip.

"I want to come with you," she said flatly.

He gave a snort of what could have been amusement, as if she'd just told a particularly ridiculous joke. "I don't think so, Love." His tone was gentle, but with an air of finality.

"Not on the buy..." she said, rolling her eyes. "Just _with_ you. I'll stay in the hotel the entire time."

He stopped his movement about the room, setting his bag on the foot of the bed, moving to sit next to her. "Where is this coming from?" he asked, moving the book so he could rub her belly. "You hate coming on business trips."

"I'm tired of being cooped up in this room," she almost whined.

"You'd just be cooped up inside a different room," he pointed out reasonably.

"I know..." she said, pouting. "But I still want to come. Maybe we could stay a few extra days after you're done and we could have a little _romantic_ getaway..." Her sly little grin left little doubt as to her meaning, her hand wandering up his thigh punctuating it.

He groaned softly, fingers closing around her wrist to stop her wandering hand. "As tempting as that sounds... Your doctor did say it would be wise to abstain for a few weeks while you heal."

"When have you ever listened to a doctor?" she muttered to herself. She was entirely aware she was being childish, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

He tried not to laugh at her little tantrum, knowing he would be even worse behaved if restricted to bedrest for any length of time. "I know it's not easy," he said gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. "But I know you want this baby to be as healthy as possible, so I know you'll listen to the doctor's orders no matter how unappealing."

She sighed dramatically, but was forced to admit he was right. "Fine. I'll stay here and grow this baby while you're out having fun without me."

"It won't be fun," he insisted. "It will just be me and Liam – and Liam's just about the least fun person on the planet. I'd much rather have you along...at least you're nicer to look at." He winked, teasing her. "I think I'll bring Morgan along too," he added as an afterthought, "I have my doubts about Gerace's trustworthiness."

Emily nearly choked. "You're bringing Morgan?" she asked, voice an octave too high.

Either not noticing her odd reaction or passing it off as nervousness over his leaving, he didn't comment, simply nodding. "I want the extra security if something should go wrong and Gerace gets spooked."

Swallowing hard, she nodded, focused on keeping her voice level. "If you're sure..."

He leaned in to kiss her. "You'll be safe," he promised, misreading her reaction, "It's only for a weekend."

She attempted a smile, but knew it was transparent. Derek and Ian alone together was just about the worst possible situation she could imagine; one small slip and Derek could bring her whole world crashing down around her. One spiteful confession could end both of their lives.

He picked up the baby name book, glancing briefly at the page she'd stopped on, entirely ignorant to her all-consuming fear. "What about Laurel?" he asked as if he hadn't just shattered her world like glass.


	24. Chapter 24

"Stop bouncing around in there!" Emily scolded in the direction of her belly. She prodded the point of discomfort where the baby had their elbow jabbed. "How do you expect your poor mother to get any sleep before you arrive if you treat my womb like a bounce house?"

As if in response, the baby jammed its foot into her ribs.

" _Ow_..."

It was late at night and Emily was wide awake because the moment she'd rolled over to go to sleep, the baby had apparently awoken and refused to stop moving.

"You know, I think you're doing this on purpose... You're supposed to be nice to your Mom – I'm working very hard to grow you, you're supposed to save all this energy for your Daddy." A pause. "Well, not your _Dad_...but I promise the Dad you'll have is a really good one. Well, not a good man, per se, but he _is_ a good father, I promise."

Her earnest discussion was interrupted then by her phone ringing.

Glancing at the screen, she smiled softly. "Speak of the devil..." she informed her belly. "You don't have to keep calling to check up on me," she said by way of answering the phone. "I may be pregnant, but I can pretty much take care of myself still. Except for tying my shoes..."

Normally, he would have laughed, teased her. Instead, he gave a heavy sigh. "Morgan's dead," he said gravely.

She was silent for a long moment, waiting for something, anything, to follow. "If this is some kind of joke, Ian, it isn't funny."

"Gerace was working with Lachlan McDermott," he continued, sounding tired. "He was lying in wait for us at the warehouse – they ambushed us, there was a firefight..."

"Ian..." she said warningly.

"Morgan took a bullet to the neck. He bled out quickly; he didn't suffer."

"Stop," she begged, nearly choking on the word. "Please..."

"I'm sorry," he said gently, genuinely. "I know you were fond of him." Silence. "Emily?"

After a few shaky breaths, she managed a strangled voice to ask, "Are you alright?"

"Just a graze," he said (and she knew he was probably downplaying it to console her). "I'll be fine. I always am." She could hear the confidence he was trying to inject into his voice, knew it was for the sole purpose of making her feel better

"Come home," she urged on a whisper. She didn't think she could handle being alone right now, let him think it was because she was concerned for his safety.

"I'm already on my way."

As soon as he'd hung up, she stumbled her way to the bathroom on shaky legs, vision blinded by tears. She barely had enough time to reach the toilet before she was throwing up her meagre dinner.

Of three things, she was absolutely certain:

1.) She had loved Derek Morgan.

2.) He'd deserved better.

3.) He wouldn't have died if not for her.

* * *

She wasn't sure how long she'd been curled up on the bathroom floor sobbing when there came a timid knock on the door. "Mrs. Doyle?" came Louise's gentle voice.

For a moment, she was overtaken by panic; she trusted Louise explicitly, but at the end of the day, she still reported to Ian... She wasn't sure any good could come from being seen weeping inconsolably over the death of another man.

"Don't come in," Emily managed to choke out, sounding nothing like herself, voice hoarse and ragged from crying. "I'm fine," she added, voice warbling on the _fine_ , betraying it.

It was too late, though, because Louise was already kneeling next to her, tenderly stroking her hair. She gently gathered Emily up in her arms, holding her against her chest and humming what Emily recognized as the tune to an old Irish lullaby she didn't know the name of.

Emily let out a pitiful little whimper, all the tension, all the fight, in her body bleeding out of her until she was limp and nearly lifeless. "He's dead..." she whispered. She didn't need to specify who, knew Ian had already called her, told her to check up on her.

"I know, Dear," Louise murmured, without judgement, without condemnation. "I'm so sorry. I know you cared deeply for him."

"How do I move on without him?" From the moment he'd come into her life, it had seemed as if he'd always been there. And up 'til now, it had seemed he always would be. No matter how badly she'd treated him, no matter how much she might've wished he wasn't, he was always _there_.

"You don't have a choice," Louise reminded her, gentle but firm. "You're a mother – it's not about you. You'll move on because that little one inside you needs you to."

She was right, Emily _knew_ she was right. But knowing it and living it were two entirely different things. "I _loved_ him," she admitted. It was the first time she'd said the words aloud, even to herself.

"I know," Louise said, voice barely even a whisper. She stroked Emily's back, still heaving with quiet sobs.

"He died because I loved him," Emily spoke the fear, the realization that was dawning on her. "Everyone I love leaves me – first Declan, now Derek...even this baby already tried."

"That's not true, Dear," Louise insisted, "Look at Ian – not even death itself would keep him from you."

But Emily wasn't about to be dissuaded. "It's only a matter of time... If he were to ever find out what I've done, he wouldn't stay. And he'd be right not to – I wouldn't, if I were him."

"He loves you," Louise reminded her simply.

Emily had doubts that would be enough, didn't bother pointing out he'd killed men for less. "What do I do now?" she begged, desperate for someone to tell her how she was supposed to carry on living a lie.

"I can't tell you that," Louise murmured apologetically. "That's something you have to figure out for yourself. But you'd best be quick about it – if you don't plan on staying, you'd best be gone before Ian gets home."


	25. Chapter 25

It was all just too much – too many unknowns, too many people depending on her, too many decisions to make. Too much for her to deal with. She couldn't do it...couldn't make a decision. She needed more time. More than she was going to get.

Ian would be home in a matter of hours and Louise was right – if she wanted to leave, she needed to do it now.

The problem was, she didn't _want_ to leave. But what she wanted didn't matter anymore. What mattered was whether it was safer for her child... And she didn't have the answer to that question. (Wasn't sure she'd like it even if she did...)

Searching for an answer, for some kind of validation, she found herself in Derek's room, standing in the doorway remembering all the times she'd lain in his bed while her husband slept on, unaware. She knew she should feel guilty, but in that moment, she couldn't quite muster any regret. Not when she could swear she felt his presence over her shoulder, the ghost of his breath on the back of her neck, the memory of his lips on hers.

She could hardly stand, hardly breathe with the force of his memories hitting her square in the chest and she shakily settled herself on the edge of his bed, not trusting her legs to support her in that moment.

"Tell me what to do," she breathed, begging his spirit to guide her when she felt so lost. "Give me a sign..."

As if in response, the baby started kicking in earnest, pressing both feet against her belly with all its little might.

"I know, Little One," she murmured, "I know... You were conceived right here." She paused, winced, gave a small self-deprecating laugh. "You probably didn't need to know that..." She shook her head softly. "Everything I have left of him – except for you – is here in this room."

Her gaze landed on the bedside table, empty but for two picture frames. The first was obviously a number of years old - a family portrait, including a much younger Derek, taken before his father had died. They looked happy...no idea of the tragedy that was coming.

The other, she assumed, was his son. The young boy wore nothing but a diaper and a party hat, cake smeared all over his chubby baby cheeks. It couldn't have been taken more than a week or two before he was murdered.

And, tucked into the corner of the frame was the ultrasound photo she'd given him. He had to have known that if Ian had found it, he was risking everything, but he'd displayed it anyway...

"You have no idea how loved you are," she whispered to her belly, "Well... _were_." She paused. "Not that you aren't still loved, but...your Daddy really loved you, even knowing he could never be your father."

It occurred to her then that someday, her child was going to have questions, they were going to wonder about Derek and where they came from. Questions she wasn't going to have the answers to, questions she hadn't thought to ask while he was still alive. The feeling that she'd failed her child welled up in her chest.

She had until Ian got home to collect what she could and hide it away until such a time as their baby was ready to know the truth about their parentage.

With trembling hands, she lifted the frames and set them reverently on the bed. They appeared to be the only pictures he had.

In fact, they seemed to be the only things at all he'd kept from his former life.

She couldn't find any photo albums, no keepsake box, no sign he'd had a life at all before that day he'd saved Ian's life in Boston. She wasn't sure if that was by design or if he genuinely had nothing left of his past, nothing to show for his life but two pictures and the child in her womb.

The only other personal touch to his room was the well-worn copy of _Mother Night_ that sat alone on the bookshelf. She knew it to be his favourite.

One night as they'd lain together in bed, she'd spotted the book and said to him, _"I thought surely you'd built a new life, with no room in it for me. I'd hoped that."_

And without missing a beat, he'd quoted back, _"My life is nothing but room for you. It could never be filled by anyone but you."_

He'd been so genuine, so earnest in his reply that her eyes had filled with tears and even now the memory of it made her choke on them.

She reached for the book and as she lifted it, a slip of paper fell from between the pages. When she unfolded it, she found a letter in his handwriting, as if he'd somehow known this all would happen.

 _Dear Emily;_

 _I won't pretend to understand why you did what you did. I won't pretend that I wasn't also at fault. I won't pretend that what we had wasn't real._

 _I loved you as fiercely as I knew how. You loved me the same – try as you might to deny it. Maybe it was a moment of weakness for you, but when you strip away that facade of strength you show to the world, that's where you find the truth._

 _And one day, when our child asks you questions that are hard to answer, I hope you find it inside you to give the honest answers._

 _I know you're raising this baby as Ian's – I've accepted that because I know how hard it is to grow up without a father. I know you trust him and I trust that you want what's best for your child. But there will come a time when the truth is more important and I trust that you'll do the right thing then._

 _Not for you or even for me, but for that child who deserves the truth of who they are: above all else, a child borne of love._


	26. Chapter 26

On a grey late September day, they buried Derek Morgan.

The funeral was a small solemn affair, with only Emily and Ian in attendance. Even that felt wrong to Emily – to have her husband attend the funeral of her secret lover. She wished it were her alone in her mourning.

Actually, if she were wishing for things, she'd wish he were still there with her. But she'd never been one for wishing for things she couldn't have. Maybe because she'd long known that she never got what she wished for anyway.

She listened vacantly as a priest who'd never known Derek droned on about the Lord and forgiveness and other things Derek had never cared for – she knew he'd hate having a priest there. He'd always hated religion, though she'd never asked why for the sake of not opening up painful wounds and, if she were being honest with herself, she'd been rather too wrapped up in her own struggles to ask about his.

Even if she'd been a good Catholic, she would have found it difficult to concentrate, as the baby had chosen that morning to toss and turn – every kick and jab and twitch a stark reminder of all that she'd lost. A reminder of _him_ – of the father her child would never get to know, of the love she'd let slip through her fingers out of fear.

Ian squeezed her hand gently and she looked over at him to find him staring at her with concern and that's when she realized she was crying. She cursed silently, quickly wiping at her tears with her free hand, even though the damage had already been done. (Later, when he asked, she'd blame the hormones...and she'd never be certain if he believed her.)

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest so he could press a kiss to the top of her head. "He was a good man," he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry he's gone – I know he was your friend."

She nodded slightly, shakily, but didn't trust herself to speak.

A few errant drops of rain spattered down from the clouds as if the sky wept for him too and Emily was immediately taken back to Declan's funeral, all those months ago. It had rained then too. She wondered if she'd ever again be able to see a cloud and not think of all those she'd lost...

She shivered, the rain quickly soaking the black woolen dress she wore.

Ian gestured to the priest to cut the eulogy short and Emily opened her mouth as if to argue, but Ian tightened his hand on her shoulder. "You're going to catch pneumonia, Love," he cautioned and she knew he was right. Derek wouldn't have wanted her to put the baby's health at risk for him.

She nodded. "Give me a minute?" she asked softly, giving him a pleading look.

He nodded once in acquiescence, wandered a few steps away to give her privacy.

Once she was sure he was out of earshot, she sighed wearily, as if holding herself together for his sake was taking every last bit of self-control. She'd had a speech prepared that morning, all the things she wished she'd said while he was alive, but in that moment, words failed her. She gestured uselessly, shook her head. "What do I do now?" she whispered.

* * *

Emily scheduled her next ultrasound for a day when she knew Ian would be too busy to join her. If he was suspicious of the inconvenient time, given that she normally made a point of making him come, he didn't say anything, simply kissed her and told her to call him afterwards.

"Do you think the baby looks like Dad?" the doctor asked conversationally.

She couldn't help the small hysterical little laugh that bubbled up in spite of her best efforts to keep her emotions in check (an endeavour that had been less and less successful in the days since the funeral). The trouble was, the baby _did_ in fact, look like Derek. And there was no way Ian wasn't going to figure out what had happened when the baby was very obviously not his, no way he wasn't going to be filled with unimaginable fury. And as far as she could see, no way she made it out alive.

She could deal with her own death, her own mortality. But she couldn't make peace with her baby growing up without its mother or father, with Ian as its only moral compass. That wasn't what Derek would have wanted, wasn't what _she_ wanted. Even if she loved Ian, she knew he wasn't a good person...

"Hypothetically speaking, if I needed to give this baby up for adoption, how would I go about that?" she asked, almost apropos of nothing.

If the doctor was thrown by the sudden change of subject, she didn't say so. She did, however, hesitate in answering. She had delivered Declan, been to his funeral – she'd known just how deeply the loss had cut Emily and she knew how happy (albeit conflicted) she'd been over the new baby, so this question was deeply concerning.

"You'd be best to go with an agency," she said slowly as if choosing her words carefully. "They'll guide you through the process of choosing parents with which to place the baby, with the legalities and policies. I can have my receptionist give you a list of agencies and adoption counsellors."

Emily smiled her thanks, but said nothing.

"You will, however, need the father's consent," the doctor continued after a moment's hesitation.

Emily winced visibly. "What if the baby's father is dead?"

It didn't escape the doctor that she'd chosen the words _baby's father_ , rather than husband.

Before she could answer, however, Emily continued, "What happens if I were to die? Does my husband get custody, even if he's not the father?"

"Emily..." the doctor started, concern heavy in her voice.

Emily shook her head before she could continue. She attempted a reassuring smile that, if the doctor's expression was anything to go on, came off as more of a pained grimace. "Never mind. Forget I asked."


	27. Chapter 27

Emily didn't get the chance to debate what she was going to do.

That evening, she was in the shower, concentrating the hot water on her aching lower back, when she felt a distinctive trickle between her legs. "Shit!" she hissed, touching her fingers to the fluid, coming away with the pinkish tinge of dilute blood. " _Shit_! Ian!" she called out, " _Ian_!"

"Yes, Love?" his voice came from the other side of the shower curtain and she could tell by his tone that he was hoping she'd invite him to join her.

She pulled back the shower curtain and made to grab for the towel, but was suddenly struck by intense pain in her lower back and she was forced to press her hands to the wall to keep herself upright. "Fuck!" she cried. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that she was in labour.

Ian's brows knit in concern, one hand landing softly on her shoulder. "Em?" he said gently; she could tell he was trying to maintain his calm facade for her sake, but had a rather tremulous hold on it. For all his steadfast confidence around violence and gore, he was worse than useless when she was in any kind of pain.

Once the contraction had passed and she was able to breathe again, she met his gaze with eyes shining with frightened tears. "My water broke..." she whispered. She grabbed for the towel again, not caring whether she ruined it as she dried the amniotic fluid still trickling down her thighs.

"Are... Are you sure?" he stammered, going white. "You're barely thirty-one weeks..."

"I know!" she snapped, impatient and scared – for her child and herself. "I'm sure. We need to go to the hospital."

He gently guided her into the bedroom and helped her pull on her clothes, the process made longer by the fact that he was afraid to hurt her further, handling her like a porcelain doll. "It's going to be okay," he assured her, "We're going to have our baby a little earlier than expected, that's all." She wasn't sure if the reassurances were more for her or for him. "Everything will be fine."

She would very much have liked to believe that...

* * *

After thirteen and a half hours of labour, Emily felt her child slip out of her body. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, she lay back, waiting breathlessly to hear a cry from the child she'd risked everything to bring into the world.

What felt like hours ticked by and, when no cry came, a part of her couldn't help but think it was for the best. That it was easier this way. She hated herself for thinking that, but knew it was true. The child would never have to know the fucked up family situation they'd been brought into, never have to know the heartbreak of never knowing their real father (or that of knowing the father they did have wasn't a good man). They were in heaven with their older brothers, their father. They were safe.

(And, the traitorous part of her mind said, maybe her marriage didn't have to fall apart. Maybe things could go back to normal. Maybe this was the best thing for everyone.)

All those thoughts were running through her mind and, even as tears choked her, she was at peace.

Then, there came that first shaky cry, quickly turning into a plaintive wail, and Emily exhaled for the first time in what felt like years.

The doctor held up the oh-so-tiny body so Emily could see her child for the first time. "Congratulations," the doctor announced, "You have a daughter." And then, just as quickly, the nurses whisked her daughter away to the NICU, leaving her with an empty womb and a fear-filled heart.

That's when the tears finally came.

* * *

She must have cried herself to sleep because the next thing she knew was waking up in the recovery room with Ian at her side, his hands wrapped around hers. Obviously, he didn't know yet.

When he realized she was awake, he flashed her a small smile, brought her hand up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it. "I'm so proud of you," he murmured. "You gave me a son and now a beautiful little daughter."

"Have... Have you seen her yet?" she asked on a shaky breath.

"Not yet," he said. "They're still getting her stabilized."

"Ian, I'm so sorry..." she started. If he was going to find out the truth, it would be best to come from her, so he was prepared for what he'd see when he first saw the baby. She didn't want him to spend the rest of his life looking at that little girl and always remember that moment he found out she was unfaithful.

"It's not your fault, Love," he interrupted. "You couldn't have known she'd come early. You did everything you could."

"No, that's not..." she tried again.

But before she could get the words out, the NICU doctor was knocking on the door. "You're the parents of Baby Girl Doyle?" he asked. When they nodded, he continued, "I just wanted to prepare you for what the next several weeks are going to look like while your daughter is in the NICU.

"Before your daughter can be released, she has to be able to eat, breathe, and keep herself warm without any help from staff or equipment. At the moment, she's unable to do any of those things, so she may be in for a long stay. She's three pounds exactly and we'd like to see her put on quite a bit of weight as well." Their expressions must have been quite dismal then because he continued, "The good news is that babies born at thirty-one weeks have an excellent chance of survival, so we're optimistic that she'll only need a relatively short stay and she'll be catching up to her peers in no time."

Once the doctor departed, Ian turned back to Emily. "What was it you were trying to tell me?"

"Maybe you should sit down..." she whispered.


	28. Chapter 28

Emily let out a shaky breath, opened her mouth to say something, then lost her nerve. She took several more breaths, could see Ian's look of concern deepening.

In spite of her best efforts, she could feel her eyes filling with tears, overwhelmed by the knowledge that this was it – this was the end. After this, everything would be different.

"Emily, you're starting to worry me," he said, reaching for her hand again. She pulled it out of reach at the last moment – she didn't want to fool herself into thinking there would be any affection for her left in him once she'd confessed everything.

"She, umm... The baby..." she started, stumbled. "She's not...yours." The last word came out barely even a whisper, barely audible at all.

For several moments, Ian stared at her in confusion, almost as if he hadn't heard – or rather, wished he hadn't. "What?" he asked, deadly calm, all emotion – all affection – falling from his face.

"You're not her father," she repeated, blinking too often to keep the tears from falling.

"Who?" he growled.

She said nothing, knowing he already knew the answer to his question.

"Tell me who, Emily," he demanded.

"Derek," she breathed, wincing as if in anticipation of a blow.

"Tell me he raped you," he said, searching for some way this wasn't her fault, some excuse that meant he could still love her. "Tell me he forced you."

She could've... She could've taken the easy way out, could have lied to him – afterall, Derek was dead, there was nothing Ian could do to him now. She could have told him what he wanted to hear and saved her marriage, saved herself.

She could have...but that would have been a lie. She didn't want to live with any more lies on her conscience.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Ian..."

"Anymore, you mean?" he snapped.

"That's fair," she conceded, unable to meet his eyes. "Derek didn't rape me. It wasn't a one time mistake. We were... _I_ was having an affair. But it _was_ a mistake. And I certainly didn't intend to get pregnant..." She met his gaze then, needing him to see that she meant it, that she hadn't wanted to hurt him like this.

For a moment, she saw white hot anger blazing in his eyes and she was certain that if she hadn't just given birth, if they weren't in a place full of witnesses, he'd have choked the life out of her then and there...and she would have deserved it. But then, just as quickly, the anger was gone, replaced with an almost empty sadness.

"Why?"

"I don't know," she admitted, wishing she had a better answer. "You and I were so... _broken_ and he was just _there_ and he knew what I was going through, what I was feeling. He made me feel like there was, I don't know, hope? Like I wasn't going to feel that way forever. I know it's not a good excuse, but..." She shook her head. There was nothing she could say that would make this any better.

Eons of silence passed. No time passed at all. She couldn't have been certain which. All she knew was that a chasm had opened up between them and all she wanted was for it to swallow her whole so she wouldn't have to continue living in a world where she'd done this to the one person she loved most. Judging by his expression, he didn't want to live in that world either. She hated that she'd done that to him. She'd never hated anyone more than she hated herself just then.

He looked like he had more questions, but she didn't have any more answers and she wasn't sure he'd like them even if she did. She just shook her head again, shrugged emptily. She flicked her tongue out over her lip as the first tear trickled down her cheek, starting a cascade.

"How long have you known she wasn't mine?" he asked the question she'd hoped he wouldn't, knowing the answer might very well break him.

"Since the amnio," she replied, eyes shut tight so she wouldn't have to see his reaction. "I had them test against Declan's cord blood."

"And you let me believe the baby was mine?" She could hear his anger flaring again. "You let me get invested, get attached...all while knowing I wasn't the father?"

"I was afraid," she whispered, "I was afraid you'd leave – I know I made a mistake, but I never wanted to leave you, to get a divorce. I didn't love him. Not like I love you."

"Do you?" he asked pointedly.

She let out a shaky gasp, his words cutting deeper than any knife. "Of course I love you! Ian, please believe me!" she implored, "If you believe nothing else I've said, believe that."

"What now, Emily?" he asked, voice rough and gravelly from, if she wasn't mistaken, withheld tears that he'd never let fall. Not for her. Not anymore. "What do you want from me? Do you expect me to just act as if nothing's happened?"

" _No_!" she insisted, breath shuddering with sobs. "I know it's not going to be that easy, but I want to try - to fix things, to earn your trust again. Please, just let me try."

"Why should I?" he countered. "You expect me to just forgive you? Just like that? Because you ask nicely, shed a few tears, and insist you're sorry?"

"You don't have to forgive me," she said desperately. "I'd understand if you can _never_ forgive me, never trust me again. All I'm asking is that you _try_. Give me a chance. I want us to be a family..."

"With a child that isn't mine?"

"Just because she doesn't have your genes, you'd turn your back on her?" she plead, "You spent the last nine months bonding with her, growing to love her, isn't that what makes her yours? You grew up without a father, do you really want that for her? Please...don't condemn her for my sins."

"It's not that easy, Emily." He shook his head. "What you're asking..."

"It can be," she insisted. "If you love me, love _us_ , it can be that simple. Please..." She was sobbing so hard she was nearly breathless now, fearing that any second, he'd walk out the door and out of her life. "I don't want to do this without you."


	29. Chapter 29

Ian Doyle was not a stupid man. He knew of his reputation, the whispered stories of a cold and unfeeling monster who'd kill you as soon as look at you. He knew this reputation was well earned – he'd done things in his life that the Devil himself would blanch at.

But for whatever reason, when he looked at Emily, that cold unfeeling monster simply vanished. Even now, staring at his sobbing wife with the knowledge that she'd lain with another man, he couldn't muster that anger, that hatred that he knew he should feel. He'd killed people for much less and yet...

And yet, in his heart, he wanted to forgive her, wanted to go back to the life they'd been living before – before Derek Morgan, before Declan died...before they were broken.

If only it were that easy.

"I want to see her," he said and it sounded like he'd shouted the words in the solemn quiet of their post-confession world. He needed to know – to know if he'd ever be able to look at this child he'd thought was his own without seeing a betrayal.

Emily nodded readily, wiping tears from her eyes. "Of course," she said, swallowing thickly around the lump of tears in her throat. "She's..." She stopped herself just short of saying _yours_... Tongue flicking out over her lip, she caught his eyes, knew he knew what she'd been about to say. No matter what the little hospital bracelet might say, she wasn't truly _his_. Not yet. "I'll take you to her," she finished lamely.

Still sore from labour, she struggled to stand from her bed and before either of them knew what was happening, Ian was at her side, carefully assisting her to her feet. His hand rested against her side for just a few seconds too long to be entirely platonic and for those few seconds, she allowed herself to hope that maybe there was a chance for the two of them...

Then, he cleared his throat and removed his hand and just like that, the moment was over. Emily attempted to push down the swell of tears that threatened at the loss of contact, offered a smile that was entirely too watery for her liking.

He didn't smile back, not that she'd been expecting him to. He did, however, remain close, just in case she needed him and she could almost believe that he _did_ still care.

As they approached the NICU, Emily struggled to ignore the rising feeling of dread in her chest and she wasn't entirely certain if it was fear of Ian's reaction or of seeing her baby being kept alive by machines. All she knew was that she was about to be face to face with the reality of her failure both as a wife and mother.

* * *

The first thought Emily had upon laying eyes upon her daughter was that she didn't look like Derek.

The second thought she had was that she didn't look like her either.

Her features were softer, subtler. Her skin a shade darker. She looked like her own person. And if you didn't know the details of her conception, it was entirely possible to believe her parents to be the two standing before her bassinet, neither quite able to breathe for looking at her.

Looking at her, Emily could almost – _almost –_ believe that it was possible for Ian to forgive her. She immediately felt awful for that being her reaction to looking at her child, but at that moment, it was all she had to offer. Perhaps because acknowledging anything else meant acknowledging the reality of the struggle the next several weeks would be for her daughter.

A nurse bustled over, interrupting the grave silence between them, and started rearranging the wires attached to the baby.

"What... What are you doing?" Ian asked, a sober fear in his eyes that only ever appeared when someone he cared about was threatened.

"We encourage parents to hold their preemie as soon as possible," the nurse informed him sweetly. He didn't have the chance to point out that he wasn't entirely sure he was going to actually _be_ the child's parent before she gestured to the nearby rocking chair. "Sit back and take your shirt off."

"Excuse me?" he sputtered.

"Skin-to-skin contact helps the baby bond with you and shortens the length of their stay in the NICU," she explained. "It regulates blood pressure, heart rate, and respiratory stability, all of which are important to stabilize before baby can come home with you."

Again, he opened his mouth to point out that he wasn't sure that was going to happen, but the nurse had already lifted the tiny infant from her bassinet, so he wordlessly unbuttoned his shirt. The next instant, the smallest infant he'd ever held was laying on his chest. The baby rooted around for a few moments as if searching for her mother's breast, whimpering softly. The nurse popped a pacifier into the baby's mouth and she started sucking in earnest.

"Little thing's determined," the nurse commented, smiling down at the child. "She wants to nurse so badly – she'll be eating on her own in no time."

Ian did his best to hide the slight tremble of his hand as he rested it on the baby's back, lest he betray his tremulous emotional state. "She's her mother's daughter," he whispered. "She was bound to be a fighter."

Emily struggled to breathe as she watched Ian stare at the baby, that same expression on his face he'd worn the first time he'd held Declan. She knew the tears she'd only just regained control of were once again dribbling down her cheeks, but couldn't make herself care just then.

The baby's tiny hand clenched and unclenched and, without being consciously aware of his movement, he brought one finger within reach, the baby's fingers closing around it and holding fast. The faintest ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

"Do we have a name for this sweet girl yet?" the nurse asked, settling a warm blanket on the baby's back.

Emily opened her mouth to say they hadn't decided yet. Didn't bother to specify there might not be a _they_ to decide anything.

Before she could get the words out, Ian spoke in a hushed tone, "I'd like to call her Lauren."

The nurse smiled. "That's a beautiful name for a beautiful little girl."

Emily couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Couldn't tell if he intended the name to be a final cutting gift so that she'd always remember him and what she'd done when she spoke the girl's name or whether he was letting himself get invested.

"Lauren Aibhilin," he added. He looked up from the baby for the briefest of moments and they locked eyes.

A sob fought its way past Emily's lips. She knew Aibhilin meant 'longed-for child' – they'd meant to name Declan that, had he been a girl. "Aibhilin," she repeated in a shaky whisper, allowing herself to hope.


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: Alright...this is the end. In an ideal world, I would have gone more into depth with the emotional repercussions and whatnot, but considering it's taken me two years to get to this point, I thought I'd take the ending that came to me. If there's interest, I might consider a sequel, but no promises on if/when.**

* * *

 _Six Weeks Later_

Emily timidly attempted to buckle Lauren into her carseat, looking like if she so much as breathed too hard, the baby would shatter like glass. Logically, she knew she wasn't going to break her, but she was only six and a half pounds and she seemed so utterly tiny and fragile.

Lauren contentedly let Emily strap her in, watching her mother in her peaceable way – the complete opposite to Declan who had hated his carseat more than anything in the world and screamed bloody murder every time they'd tried to put him in it. (Emily wasn't sure she could have handled a wail like that from her tiny daughter without breaking down completely, wasn't sure she knew how to do this on her own.)

"Well, Princesa," she sighed. (Derek had always called her 'Princess' – it seemed only fitting to call his daughter the same.)

The baby blinked up at her with her bright little eyes that every day seemed a shade more like Emily's own. She brought her tiny fist up to her mouth, shoving the entire thing inside.

Lips twitching into a tiny smile, Emily settled on her knees in front of the carrier, tucking the blanket in tighter around Lauren. "It might be just the two of us from now on..." She shook her head sadly. "I never wanted you to have to grow up without a father. And I hope that one day you'll forgive me for the mistakes I've made."

Ian had stuck around while Lauren was in the NICU – Emily couldn't be certain, though, whether it was because he intended to stay or simply for appearances so long as nurses and doctors would notice his absence.

When they'd received word that Lauren was finally being released from the NICU and they'd be able to take her home, though, Ian had disappeared. She wasn't certain whether he'd be there when they arrived home. Whether she'd ever see him again. Whether that was for the best.

The alternative, of course, was that he was waiting for her to arrive home with a loaded pistol and a bodybag. She wasn't sure that wasn't the more merciful option.

Lauren let out a garbled little sound around her drool-coated fingers. Emily eased the baby's fingers from her mouth, replacing them with a pacifier. Lauren seemed just as content, either way.

"Maybe I deluded myself," she continued, "Letting myself think he might actually stick around. I just thought that maybe when he held you for the first time, he'd fall in love with you. That he'd remember what it was like when your brother was born and want that again. That he'd just see _you_ and not, you know, everything else..."

Lauren yawned around the pacifier.

"Am I boring you?" she asked the baby with a tender smile. With gentle fingers, she traced the girl's tiny features, lightly tapped her little nose. "I just don't see how he can look at you and think of anything but how perfect you are. How you deserve the whole entire world...and I just wish I could give it to you."

"Who are you talking to?" Ian's voice came from the doorway.

Emily looked up sharply in surprise. "The baby," she answered his question, cheeks pinking with embarrassment. She wasn't sure how much of the conversation he'd overheard. Not that it mattered either way – he was either going to stay or he wasn't, there was nothing she could do now that would change that.

"Is she ready to go?" he asked, looking down at the baby with something like a smile playing about his lips, if she wasn't entirely mistaken.

"As soon as the doctor signs the discharge papers," she replied, standing up and dusting herself off. She didn't miss the way he carefully rearranged the baby's little hat as he lifted the carrier.

* * *

As it turned out, the reason he'd disappeared was to ensure the house was ready for the baby's arrival. Not that that proved anything.

It had taken all of about five minutes for Lauren to get fussy once they arrived home, overdue for a nap which, apparently she'd take a lot of as she continued on her altered development schedule. Ian had insisted on being the one to put her to sleep and Emily wanted to believe that was a good sign – that he was taking an interest in the baby, bonding with her.

She watched from the doorway to the nursery as he settled Lauren into the crib with gentleness someone like him shouldn't be capable of possessing. She wasn't blind, she knew he had all the earmarks of a psychopath and therefore shouldn't be capable of feeling things like love, but she'd seen it with her own eyes when he looked at Declan and, she was certain, Lauren as well.

The question was, what remained in his eyes when he looked at her...

She didn't realize she was chewing her nails until he was next to her, easing her hand away from her mouth. "Is she asleep?" she whispered, hoping in vain that he might not let her hand go.

"Out like a light," he answered, his gaze straying back to the sleeping baby. "Must be all the excitement of her new home."

"Must be," she echoed, gaze unfocused and far away. "Why did you do it?" she asked suddenly once the door shut behind them, surprising the both of them.

"Do what?" he asked, confused.

"Sign the birth certificate," she elaborated. "If you didn't want to be her father, why would you sign it?"

"Who said I'm not going to be her father?" he asked, brow raised with something wary and distrustful behind it. And, if she wasn't mistaken, hurt.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked, ignoring his question. She looked up at him then, the two of them sharing a weighty but silent conversation.

"Did you love him?" he asked simply, answering a question with a question. He didn't need to specify who he'd meant by _him_.

"I..." she stuttered, "I don't..." She shook her head desperately.

"Tell the truth," he demanded, never raising his voice but commanding all the same. "You owe me at least that."

"I did," she admitted, thinking perhaps it would've been kinder to just kill her. "Not the same as I love you, but love all the same."

He nodded slowly, as if that had been the answer he'd expected. Then, he asked the one question she honestly didn't have the answer to, "If he hadn't died, would you be here today? With me?"

Her breath caught in her throat, but the words spilled out before she could stop them. "I don't know..." she whispered, eyes falling shut so she wouldn't have to see the look on his face like she'd ripped his heart out and showed it to him.


End file.
